


The Thorns of a Rose

by Dexterous_Sinistrous



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Game of Thrones Fusion, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Canon-Typical Violence, Consort Stiles Stilinski, Hand of the King John Stilinski, Implied Mpreg, King Derek Hale, M/M, Minor Chris Argent/Peter Hale, Mpreg, Sexual Content, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:54:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 73,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24781129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dexterous_Sinistrous/pseuds/Dexterous_Sinistrous
Summary: “You have your mother’s eyes,” Peter suddenly commented, his tone light in his observation.Stiles stiffened at the mention of his mother.“Honest eyes,” Peter added as an afterthought. “Sunlit like the golden embers of coal burning in a forge.”Stiles turned a soured expression on Peter. “Have you a point?” He asked.“Many men have struggled to have those eyes even spare them a glance,” Peter simply stated. “An honest but naive treasure that managed to fool a dragon.” He placed the crown on Stiles’ head, amused when the boy immediately pushed away from him once the ornament was in place. “Hopefully those eyes can fool the Seven Kingdoms into thinking you could love a wolf.”
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 380
Kudos: 2218





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> An AU set in the GoT's world. Derek could be related to Robert Baratheon/Robb Stark and Stiles to Cersei Lannister/Margaery Tyrell. (But their personalities really relate more to the latter, and their social standings are reserved to the former...)
> 
> This fic has been in the making for years now, and I have finally started to refine it/finish the last chapters. I'm going to try for a chapter a week, but we all know how I am with timelines.
> 
> I hope you enjoy :)

Stiles trembled as his father held him close, his breathing ragged and uncontrollable as the stench of blood invaded his senses. He wished he could forget the sounds of the Mad King choking out for mercy that he didn’t deserve. He had hoped that his father would have found him before it happened. He dropped the golden belt of thorns that had hung from his waist, pulling his tunic tightly against his body. He could still feel the blood that covered the belt cooling against his skin.

John held Stiles against his chest as he hushed away Stiles’ choked off sobs and calmed his quickened breaths. He tucked Stiles’ face away in the crook of his shoulder, hiding his son from the bloodied sight staining the throne room. He looked above Stiles’ head, seeing that Derek and a handful of close guards had followed him through the High Keep’s chaos, and were now silently staring at the image before them. He was grateful for Derek when the young man ordered the others to vacate the room, giving them some privacy.

~*~

Stiles stared at himself in the mirror. When he was young, he used to imagine how he’d feel on his wedding day. He had pretended it would be a joyous occasion, that his happiness would be easy to see and accept. Now, he just saw the sadness and weariness the Mad King managed to instill in him from his young age. He had spent over six years, lying and scheming to keep himself safe from the King, and it was all for naught. He was to marry a King regardless.

Everyone was in a scramble to ally the houses before the Argents tried to sway the families against a wolf on the Iron Throne.

Stiles had been given a day’s rest before his father broke the news to him.

“When will we go home?” Stiles hopefully asked his father.

John’s features twisted, his frown deepening as he avoided looking at Stiles. “We’re not going to Storm’s End … or High Garden, Stiles.”

Stiles was confused by such a statement. “But you promised,” he weakly countered. “You said once it was decided who would rule, we’d leave King’s Landing for good.” He rose from the bed, hands ringing at the billowing sleeves of his nightshirt.

“That was before the negotiations were made,” John answered.

“What negotiations—”

“I’ve been made Hand of the King,” John replied before Stiles could press for more.

Stiles shook his head, having hoped his father was done with politics now that the war ended. “But there is no need for me in King’s Landing,” he stated. “I could go back home—visit you here.”

John turned to look at Stiles. “There is nothing more I would love for you,” he weakly confessed. “But your place will be here.”

Stiles stared at his father. “Why?”

John’s expression was a grim one.

“Why?” Stiles repeated with more force—a sharp demand in his voice.

“You’ll marry Derek—you’ll be made the King Consort,” John replied, as if it was the simplest plan and not the act of driving Stiles into another gilded cage for people to poke and prod at.

“No,” Stiles almost whispered, his lungs burning with the desire to scream.

“You will—”

“I won’t!” Stiles angrily snapped at his father when he tried to reach for him. “You  _ promised me _ ! That we would go  _ home _ !”

“King’s Landing is now your home,” John answered.

“No!” Stiles argued. “No, it’s been my prison since I was twelve!” Tears stung Stiles’ eyes, his arms trembling with anger as his heart burned with betrayal. “Twelve years old, and you  _ left me _ here. At that madman’s  _ mercy _ .” He sharp sob hiccupped from Stiles’ chest, a terrified laugh bubbling up. “And now, you’re gifting me to a man I don’t know—to father children I don’t want, for a kingdom I hate.”

John dared to move forward, to try and calm Stiles some. He steeled his reaction when Stiles practically flung himself away from his reach. “This is saving your life.”

“This will end my life,” Stiles snapped. “You don’t understand that—but this is killing me.” He turned to look at John. “Please, don’t do this to me—after everything I’ve suffered.”

John turned his gaze away.

“Please,” Stiles pleaded. “ _ Please _ .”

The silence was deafening.

“I’m sorry, Stiles.”

Stiles had cried through the night after screaming at his father to leave him. He smothered his screams into the pillow, his fingernails digging into the fabric as he imagined sprouting claws and tearing it apart. He was exhausted the next morning, yelling at his handservant to leave him, annoyed when the girl tried to help him pick out the appropriate dressings.

Stiles continued to stare at his reflection, knowing that it wasn’t going to change a damned thing. He knew that the moment he left his room—the moment he said he was ready—he would be escorted up to the Sept of Baelor, to be forced into an unwanted marriage. He wondered when Lydia had stopped caring about his happiness, as she had once claimed in the letters rejecting the Mad King’s proposals. He wondered when his father stopped seeing him as someone to protect, and turned to considering him a bartering object.

“My lord,” Parrish’s voice broke through Stiles’ thoughts.

Stiles looked at Parrish in the mirror, seeing the knight stand in the open doorway leading into his room.

“They’re ready,” Parrish offered in explanation. “The Nobles have gathered.”

Stiles looked away from Parrish, his hands fisting the material of his wedding robes.

Parrish took it upon himself to enter Stiles’ room, taking the necessary steps to reach him. “I’m sorry,” he offered, unsure what to say about such a situation.

Stiles scoffed, blinking slowly to rid himself of his tears.

“I’ve met Derek a few times, before the war and after the breach,” Parrish started. “He’s not all bad.”

Stiles stared off to the side. “No one is ever considered  _ all _ bad.” He turned to finally look at Parrish. “I’ve been traded from one captor to another, nothing more.”

Parrish reached a hand up to wipe away the tear that escaped Stiles. His knuckles gently brushed against Stiles’ skin, ensuring that his calloused hands did more good than harm to the young lord.

“Thank you,” Stiles softly uttered, looking up at Parrish. “For everything.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t do more,” Parrish answered, his touch lingering.

“Stiles—” John’s voice cut off as he came to a halt in the doorway, catching sight of Parrish’s close proximity to Stiles.

Stiles looked at his father, quickly standing up to walk towards him—making room between himself and Parrish. “I’m ready,” he offered, keeping an eye on his father. He saw the way his father’s gaze lingered on Parrish.

“They’re in the Sept,” John finally stated, his gaze shifting to Stiles.

“Then let us get this charade over with,” Stiles stated, moving passed his father, forcing John to follow after him. He didn’t blame his father for shadowing him—he didn’t even trust himself not to run.

John grabbed Stiles’ arm before they entered the Sept of Baelor. “Just a moment, son.”

Stiles turned to look at his father, hating how hopeful he felt. He wished he could believe that his father was going to save him from such a fate.

John released a heavy sigh as he reached into his satchel, drawing out an object wrapped in linen. He offered it to Stiles. “Your mother would have wanted you to have it.”

Stiles took the object, unwrapping it with ease. He realized it was his mother’s locket, knowing that her portrait and John’s were inlaid in the gold. He ran his fingertips over the engraved pattern decorating the outside of the locket. He remembered playing with it often as a child, his fingers opening and closing the locket in a calming pattern as he slept against his mother’s chest.

“I thought the Mad King had stolen it,” Stiles uttered. He remembered how his things went missing the day after Laura Hale had been executed. His room was ransacked, his clothes strewed across the bed, his drawers pulled out and thrown on the floor. All his jewelry was missing, the head Kingsguard telling Stiles he could have it back when the King allowed it.

“It was in his room,” John offered, hesitating in his explanation.

Stiles shouldn’t have been surprised. “He was having his rooms renovated,” he answered his father. “To accomodate me when we wed,” he finished. He released a laugh, one that was empty of any true joy. “That wasn’t in the cards, I guess.”

John looked at Stiles. “I’m sorry for this,” he started, taking a calm breath as he planned his words carefully. “But Derek is a good man.”

Stiles looked down at his mother’s locket. “I’m sure many men are,” he hollowly stated. He lifted the chain to easily clasp the locket into place around his neck. He looked at his father. “I suppose a usurper King is better than a Mad one,” he commented.

Stiles moved to walk passed John, stilling when his father grabbed his arm again, this time much sterner.

“I have to ask,” John began in a hushed tone, one that demanded privacy. “Should there be concern about tonight?”

Stiles’ eyebrows scrunched as he stared at his father. “I don’t know what you mean.” He wished he couldn’t guess what his father was implying.

“Are you intact?” John choicely asked.

Stiles ripped out of John’s grasp, his anger evident. “If you’re so concerned about that, then perhaps you shouldn’t have left me in the hands of a pedophile,” he snapped.

John grabbed Stiles again, only to release him when Stiles spun to confront him. “I’m  _ not  _ asking about Viseryn,” he adamantly stated.

Stiles physically recoiled at the use of the Mad King’s gods-given name.

“But about your guard,” John concluded.

“Jordan?” Stiles asked in confusion.

“I saw the way you looked at him,” John countered.

“He’s been my friend,” Stiles replied. “He saved me from … ” He looked away from his father. “Viseryn would have taken me by force, had it not been for Jordan,” he finally explained. “I only have friendship with him, that’s all.”

John finally accepted Stiles’ words. “Then … ” he paused, looking at Stiles. “You’re intact.”

Stiles never thought he could feel any hate for his father. But it was becoming easier in the recent days for anger to grow. “Don’t worry, I’ll play the blushing virgin so well for your warlord King that he won’t be able to tell.”

~*~

Stiles was poised, gliding into the dance steps with ease as he kept his wits about him. He tried to pretend that he wasn’t focused on the location of Derek’s hands, wanting to know that he wasn’t going to take advantage of their newly developed union.

“I heard you dance well,” Derek commented, his voice stiff but unusually soft, as if he was trying to calm a wild animal.

“Once, there was a time I did,” Stiles replied, finally looking at Derek.

“Something changed that?” Derek asked, amazed that Stiles finally answered his attempts at conversation.

“The Mad King liked it when I danced,” Stiles simply stated, as if that was answer enough.

Derek’s gaze narrowed as he released a heavy sigh, turning his attentions away from Stiles once more. His brow furrowed when he felt the prick of the thorns decorating the belt wrapped around Stiles’ waist. He looked down at the belt, recognizing it as the one he saw tossed to the side, scattered across the marble in the throne room, forgotten in a pool of the Mad King’s blood.

Stiles was too busy looking at the surrounding rich nobles watching them—those that came to celebrate the Winter Wolf taking the Stag of High Garden as his prize for conquering the last Living Dragon. He had been so sure he was free with the Mad King’s body buried deep within the High Keep’s crypt.

Stiles turned his attentions back to Derek when he felt Derek’s hand move lower before ultimately lingering on his belt. He caught the man looking down at the belt, inspecting its features. He knew Derek recognized it through his stare alone. He didn’t know who else was privy to such information, believing his father to have hidden every detail of the Mad King’s final moments.

Many believed the tale sung throughout the Kingdoms, that the Mad King had met his demise at the hands of Lord Stilinski, Warden of the South and Lord of Storm’s End. Rumors spread that John flew into an inconsolable rage when he came upon the King tearing Stiles’ clothes off—that he murdered the King out of paternal love alone.

That was a story much more acceptable than the truth.

“That’s a little inappropriate, don’t you think?” Derek asked, finally looking up at Stiles.

“No, I don’t,” Stiles plainly answered as their dance ended.

Derek took Stiles’ hand with ease, holding on with a grasp befitting a King. He placed a kiss to Stiles’ knuckles, much to the pleasure of the crowd. He easily moved them across the floor and towards the banquet table.

Stiles tensed when he heard the calls for the bedding ceremony to begin. He bodily recoiled when one hand touched the ceremonial cape draped across his shoulder. His smile was gone, nothing but a steely gaze that dared someone to think they could touch him without consequence.

Derek tightened his hold on Stiles’ hand, stopping him from pulling away. He knew better than anyone that they needed to keep the spectacle going, regardless of personal tastes—as his uncle liked to remind him. “There won’t be a bedding ceremony,” he simply announced, pulling Stiles in closer to his side.

Stiles looked at Derek, relief across his features.

The crowd seemed intrigued by Derek’s statement. “But tradition—”

“I don’t think it would be very joyous of me to break another’s jaw on our wedding night,” Derek answered.

Stiles released a slightly amused huff of air, glad that the crowd laughed in answer. He let Derek take his arm, happy to be done with the parading waves of celebration. He was tired of the mask he wore.

~*~

Derek nodded in parting to the servant as he closed the door behind her. He had seen her keeping a fleeting eye on them, how her gaze lingered on Stiles. He knew the Court was anxious for word that the royal bedding ceremony would take place, and that the only evidence they would have would be what the servants overheard.

Stiles busied himself with the ties of his corseted vest, his fingers nimbly pulling the strings from the eyelets. He wanted to be in his nightclothes and sleep. He turned and saw Derek standing by the small refreshment table meant to keep them sated through the night, examining its contents. He had forgotten he was to have company for the rest of his nights. His hands fell to the belt hanging low around his waist, fingers touching the thorns there.

“Thinking of how to assassinate me?” Derek simply questioned as he continued to pick through the fruit on the table. He plucked a grape, turning to look at Stiles as he slipped the small oval fruit passed his lips. He arched his eyebrow at Stiles, gesturing his head down towards Stiles’ belt. “Wouldn’t it be smarter to have me incapacitated after a fuck? Certainly would be easier to strangle me that way.”

Stiles’ gaze slowly slipped into a glare, his hands tightening on the belt. “I spent a majority of my life listening to people telling me I was to line the bed of the King. I didn’t let the Mad King have me, and I don’t plan on letting the Wolf King have me either.”

“Many say the Mad King had you already,” Derek countered, watching Stiles’ features for a tell. He could see the repulsion there, knowing that the rumor had indeed been a lie.

Stiles had no love for the Mad King, that was the truth.

“You’re nothing but a glorified killer,” Stiles angrily spat at Derek.

“And you’re nothing but a glorified whore.”

Stiles smacked Derek.

Derek simply turned his head back to look at Stiles.

Stiles angrily tried to punch him this time, only to have Derek grab his arm.

Derek tightly held onto Stiles’ wrist, unmoving when Stiles tried to yank his arm away. “I’m not an old man, desperately scrambling to try and bury my cock in you.” He didn’t give up his hold on Stiles’ arm. “Next time you try to strike me, I won’t hold myself back.”

“So you are nothing but a brute,” Stiles answered.

“Says the one who made things physical,” Derek countered as he finally let Stiles yank his hand back.

“Don’t think I’ll share my bed with you,” Stiles stated.

“Neither one of us has a choice,” Derek replied, taking Stiles by the elbow to lead towards the bed.

“My choice is to not spread my legs for you,” Stiles angrily stated as he tore himself away from Derek.

“I have never had an unwilling bed partner,” Derek simply stated. “But you’ll have to get over your reserves and realize that there is no avoiding this.”

“Never,” Stiles defiantly snapped.

Derek turned, anger in his actions as he grabbed Stiles and physically hauled him over to the bed.

“Stop!” Stiles protested, moving to hit his hand against Derek’s arm, not caring for Derek’s earlier warning that he would retaliate. He was scared for what felt like the first time. He had forgotten what it felt like to have fear wash over him in an instant, having lived his life in a constant state of it. But he knew Derek wasn’t weak like the Mad King, and in that moment, that truly scared him.

Derek wordlessly cast Stiles down to the bed, avoiding Stiles’ hands hitting at his own. He grabbed Stiles’ wrists in his hands, forcefully pinning Stiles’ arms against the bed as he settled between Stiles’ thrashing legs.

“Stop struggling for one second,” Derek loudly demanded as he restrained Stiles.

“Never,” Stiles snapped. “I will  _ never  _ stop fighting you, do you understand that? I won’t be your wilting flower of a dutiful spouse. I will fight you at every turn, counting the days until you die!”

“When I die is the day you become their plaything again,” Derek informed Stiles in a loud, authoritative voice. “Unless I put a baby in your belly, you will be tossed around from house to house until one of them forces an heir into you. Then they’ll have a claim to this infernal throne.”

“I’ll go home,” Stiles vehemently stated.

“What home?” Derek asked. “You have no home besides King’s Landing, Stiles. You’ve been here since you were a child—groomed for the throne.”

“I will go home,” Stiles angrily stated again, sharp breaths escaping his chest. “They will welcome me back.”

“Your own cousin sold you into this marriage,” Derek simply put. “Your father offered you up like a prized stag.”

“You put blame on everyone but yourself,” Stiles snapped.

“I never wanted this,” Derek angrily replied. He finally released his hold on Stiles’ arms, moving to sit up. “Your father was offered the throne, and he rejected it—threw me into the pit instead.” He sat up, easily lifting Stiles’ leg to push him back into the bed, rolling their bodies apart. “You want someone to blame, blame him.”

Stiles closed his eyes, turning his head away from Derek as tears burned his vision. “Get out,” he softly stated, the air stiff and unwelcoming between them. He held his breath as he waited the agonizing seconds it took Derek to rise from the bed and leave the room. He didn’t start crying until he heard the soft click of the door, signaling Derek’s departure.

Stiles knew Derek was right—neither one of them had a choice. But that didn’t make it easier to accept.

~*~

Stiles strolled through the gardens alongside Lydia, feeling the eyes of the others on him. He nodded his head in respect to the passing lords and ladies, hiding behind his expertly crafted smile to project the image of a perfectly happy newlywed.

“We haven’t had a chance to speak since I arrived,” Lydia started, pausing as she reached a hand out to inspect one of the yellow roses dangling from the wall. She snapped the stem with ease, twirling the rose in her fingers as she admired the lovely petals. She took Stiles’ arm once more, taking calm steps to be paired with the silence between them.

“Yes, you and father have been busy plotting my life,” Stiles shamelessly stated.

Lydia released a sad sigh. “Stiles,” she started.

“I understand what happened,” Stiles quickly stated. “Don’t treat me like a child—as if I have to be spoken down to. I know why I was married off to the Wolf King of the North.”

“People have called for your head,” Lydia harshly whispered, tightening her hold on Stiles’ arm. “This was the surest way to guarantee your safety.”

Stiles turned his gaze away from Lydia. “My father could have been King,” he plainly stated. “That would have saved me.”

“But likely put your father in harm’s way,” Lydia replied.

“So I’m to thank you for forcing me to marry?” Stiles demanded as he turned to look at Lydia. “For years, the Mad King wrote you, demanding that you give me to him. You didn’t budge an inch for him, regardless of the strain it put on your relations with King’s Landing.” He shook his head. “How can you expect me to forgive you for this?”

Lydia released her hold on Stiles’ arm. “Stop being a selfish brat,” she calmly stated. She stood to her full height, shoulders level and back properly elevated to straighten her posture. She was hiding behind her own mask—her regal stance as the Duchess of the Marshes—and Stiles hated her for it. “You were always destined to marry someone of high standing—whether it was whoever sat on the Iron throne, or some high ranking Lord in the North. You were likely to marry a Hale regardless of how the war ended.”

Stiles turned his head to look elsewhere, watching the way guards deterred more than one of the straying nobles from eavesdropping.

“I rejected the Mad King’s requests because I knew what he truly wanted from you,” Lydia continued to explain in a gentler tone. “He wasn’t going to put a crown on your head, or let you rule over the people with him. He wanted to tear you apart before burning you with everything else—”

“You don’t know what he wanted,” Stiles hissed at her, speaking in a low voice as he whirled his gaze back to her. “The things he did to me— that he wanted to do, but made those poor prostitutes endure.” Hot tears burned his eyes, anger welling up in his chest. “None of you cared to ask me for permission— you acted just like  _ him  _ and decided what I was to do because it satisfied your needs. You married me off to a man I don’t know.”

Lydia’s features softened in sympathy. “Derek isn’t the Mad King,” she offered, hoping it brought some understanding to Stiles. She wanted him to know that she didn’t make the decision carelessly, knowing that Derek was one of the only men in line for the throne who wouldn’t deteriorate into someone like the Mad King. She knew Derek to have the reputation of a man with a gentle disposition—though that had been before the war.

“Hardly anyone is the Mad King,” Stiles defiantly answered.

“Derek is very handsome,” Lydia countered. “It would not be hard to find yourself desiring him.”

Stiles remained stubbornly silent, knowing it would show Lydia the depths of his anger.

“You are not the gilded rose of High Garden anymore,” Lydia spoke in a hushed tone. “The poor loved you once, but you were by the Mad King’s side when so many were murdered.” She took a step towards Stiles. “Derek’s grace is what will save you from their anger.”

“If I’m no longer graced with my renown titles, why bother marrying me to the new King?” Stiles demanded to know.

“You are still my beloved cousin,” Lydia explained. “You help patch up not only the South and the North, but the West as well. And by living in the East, you and Derek are bringing stability back to all regions of the kingdom.” She reached a hand up, tucking the stem of the yellow rose behind Stiles’ ear, leaving the flower to adorn Stiles’ features in the parting sunlight. “I wasn’t going to watch you be torn down with the Mad King, Stiles. I agreed to this arrangement because it kept you safe.”

“I’m never safe,” Stiles solemnly answered. “There are very few who can make me feel safe, let alone actually keep me safe.” He allowed his gaze to fall on Parrish, watching the young knight pacing back and forth by the main walkway as he kept other lords and ladies from approaching.

Lydia looked at Parrish. “I’m sorry,” she stated, knowing that Stiles wasn’t going to react kindly.

Stiles looked at Lydia. His eyebrows furrowed.

“Parrish isn’t a Kingsguard anymore,” Lydia started. “He brought shame on his name by asking to be removed and placed on the royal guard.” She released a heavy breath. “It’s easy for people to talk, and sew seeds of doubt in the minds of the powerful. And adultery is a crime against the crown.”

Stiles’ eyes widened briefly before he turned a glare on Lydia. “Tell me you didn’t—”

“Parrish is to come with me when I leave,” Lydia plainly stated, knowing that there was no way to soften such a blow.

“You would take away the one person I trust,” Stiles started.

“It’s not to punish you—”

“Then what is it?” Stiles loudly demanded.

“When you have a child—a Hale child and heir, then I can return Parrish to you,” Lydia answered in hushed but firm tone. “And only when there can be no doubt—”

“You call me a whore and expect me to accept that?” Stiles angrily asked. “I thought you were on my side.”

“I  _ am  _ on your side, Stiles,” Lydia pressed. “I want there to be no possible way someone could tarnish your reputation with lies—to the point that you’d lose your head.”

“Perhaps I would be better without a head, since so many seem to desire it,” Stiles snapped, turning on his heel as he left Lydia behind in the gardens.

~*~

Stiles made his way into the Tower of the Hand, ascending with anger in his steps. He was determined to have words with his father and husband. He didn’t bother listening to the Kingsguard knight that tried to stop him, marching through the doors and into the meeting.

The council members stopped speaking, turning their gazes towards the door where Stiles had entered. Derek looked up at Stiles, intrigue in his expression.

“Stiles,” Lord Stilinski started as he noticed the interruption was from his son.

“I need to speak with you,” Stiles stated with force. “It’s important.”

“It can’t wait?” John asked, trying to keep control over the situation.

“I think we can end things for today, John,” Derek stated before Stiles could even speak. He looked at the other members of the council, a silent command in his expression that told the men to leave before verbal prompting was needed.

Derek’s uncle, Peter Hale, lingered with a smirk on his face as he leaned over to whisper something in Derek’s ear.

Derek gave Peter a glare in response for his comment.

Stiles waited until the door was shut behind him.

“The floor is yours,” Derek stated, making a wide arm gesture for Stiles to make his grievances known.

“I was not informed you were taking the head of my guard away from me,” Stiles plainly stated.

Derek looked at John, a silent question of how Stiles found out.

“Lydia,” John knowingly sighed.

“Who am I to have as the head of my guard now?” Stiles demanded to know of Derek.

“Parrish is a fine soldier, and a better knight. Unfortunately, he broke his vow for the Kingsguard, but is still employed in the royal guard,” Derek simply explained. “Most people move up from the royal guard, not backwards.”

“The thieves and brutes you have in the Kingsguard have broken their vow in worse ways,” Stiles defiantly snapped at Derek. “They called the Mad King their monarch, vowed to protect him. And now you wear his crown.”

“Thanks to you,” Derek countered.

A flush burned over Stiles’ skin at the mention of the Mad King’s demise.

“I want Parrish to stay,” Stiles firmly stated.

“And that is why he must go,” Derek answered.

“I trust him,” Stiles vehemently uttered. “You’re taking away one of the only people I trust—who has kept me safe.”

“And for that, I am sorry,” Derek replied, moving to stand up from his seat. “But don’t act as if I’m a fool.”

Stiles drew in a sharp breath, waiting for Derek to make the same assumptions.

“I see the way you look at him, and he you,” Derek continued. “Whether or not you’ve shared a bed is unimportant.”

Stiles opened his mouth to argue.

“What is important is that we are in the beginning of our marriage and many people are hoping it fails—that we fail,” Derek quickly stated before Stiles could assume he was being unreasonable. “And if you have a former knight of the Kingsguard guarding your rooms at night and escorting you around the palace by day, people will talk. And then it won’t be a question of fidelity, but a question of when it was allowed to be broken.”

“This was your idea, wasn’t it?” Stiles asked as he looked at his father.

John frowned, knowing he couldn’t lie to Stiles about it.

Stiles looked back at Derek. “Then you best fuck me and put a child in me. Or soon, you’ll have to purge all of King’s Landing in order to keep the rumors at bay.”

John grabbed Stiles’ arm as he tried to pass him. “You’re allowed to be angry,” he softly stated. “But you have to see the reason in this.”

Stiles pulled his arm out of his father’s grip. “Just because I have a  _ friend _ doesn’t mean I let him fuck me.” He looked back at Derek. “Let me know when I should start sending your friends away.” He marched out of the room, ignoring the angry tears burning his eyes.

~*~

“Your crown has been finished,” Peter stated when Stiles glared at him. He held up a velvet box, opening the lid to place the ornate circlet on display.

Stiles looked at the object, seeing it for what it was to him—a collar to keep him leashed.

“It’s smaller than Derek’s, per the norm for Consort crowns,” Peter explained.

That was true—the crown was smaller than the one Stiles had seen commissioned for Derek, somewhat grateful for that grace. He had few pieces of jewelry that rivaled the weight of the heavier Targaryen crowns, and he did not wish to make his neck suffer. This new crown itself was golden, antlers bridging out from the main inlaid circle that was meant to rest on his head. A golden rose was forged in the middle, marking where the antlers conjoined. He counted the rosebuds wrapped around the thorns, noting that there were six, and the blossom made seven.

“Derek’s crown has the seven points, a mirroring of Hugor of the Hill’s crown,” Peter continued. He wasn’t surprised that Stiles kept silent in his judgement.

“An invader,” Stiles softly stated. He turned a defiant eye on Peter. “Fitting, for the King of the Andals and First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm,” he mockingly uttered.

A silence fell between them as Peter merely observed Stiles.

“You have your mother’s eyes,” Peter suddenly commented, his tone light in his observation.

Stiles stiffened at the mention of his mother.

“Honest eyes,” Peter added as an afterthought. “Sunlit like the golden embers of coal burning in a forge.”

Stiles turned a soured expression on Peter. “Have you a point?” He asked.

“Many men have struggled to have those eyes even spare them a glance,” Peter simply stated. “An honest but naive treasure that managed to fool a dragon.” He placed the crown on Stiles’ head, amused when the boy immediately pushed away from him once the ornament was in place. “Hopefully those eyes can fool the Seven Kingdoms into thinking you could love a wolf.”

Stiles ignored Peter when he heard the doors open. He looked at Derek entering the room.

Derek was dressed in fine clothing, though his outfit was in the Northern tradition unlike his normal attire. He had his own crown on, a look of disinterest sunk his features.

“You look happy,” Peter sarcastically commented as he placed the velvet box down that previously housed Stiles’ crown.

“This is ridiculous,” Derek answered Peter. “We shouldn’t be wearing crowns while greeting the common people.”

Stiles was surprised to find himself agreeing with Derek.

“You need to look and act like a King,” Peter answered. “And given the past few weeks have been nothing but talk about how  _ unkingly _ you are, I think this is a necessity.”

Stiles stood, moving to stand beside Derek. He looked up at him, his eyes inspecting the jeweled collar that hung from Derek’s chest. He reached up, undoing the clasps of the collar.

“What are you doing?” Peter asked when he saw that Derek was letting Stiles take the collar from him.

“It’s too much,” Stiles answered. He discarded the collar back onto the table beside him before straightening Derek’s tunic. He ran his hands down the front of Derek’s chest, evening out the material. “There,” he stated to himself, looking up at Derek. “You look kingly, even without the jewels.”

“I picked that out for him,” Peter countered.

“And it showed,” Stiles replied as he looked at Peter. “If you want the people to accept Derek as their king, then you have to make sure a remnant of the stories told about him are still present.”

Derek looked from Stiles to Peter. “I think he has a point.”

“You just want to get out of wearing it,” Peter remarked.

Stiles sighed. “Fine, don’t believe the person who has lived in King’s Landing the longest,” he countered.

Peter threw his hands up in defeat, knowing that Derek was going to agree with Stiles—even if it was misguided.

The walk from the Keep to the Sept of Baelor was a long and tiring one when not using the hidden tunnels beneath the streets. It became a long and strenuous walk that involved a lot of false smiles and calm nerves.

Stiles had only walked to the Sept of Baelor out in the open once before—and that was when his father escorted him there to wed Derek. Now, there were thousands of people gathered to lay eyes on them both.

Stiles walked beside Derek with calmed ease, offering the barest of smiles as he concentrated on not frowning. He could see the looks of despair still clinging to the people.

“I wanted to apologize,” Derek started in a soft tone.

“What for?” Stiles asked as he looked at Derek.

“For yesterday,” Derek elaborated. “I should have been the one to inform you the moment it was decided to send Parrish away.”

Stiles tensed for the briefest moment. “It shouldn’t be happening in the first place,” he uttered.

“I’ve told you why—”

“You called me a whore,” Stiles stated, turning to look at Derek. His features were sharp and angered, a mask meant to hide how hurt he was. “On our wedding night, you called me a whore,” he specified, making sure to keep his voice even and low enough to avoid eavesdroppers. “And now, you do it again by sending a dear friend of mine away.” He turned back towards the road they walked, ignoring the guard that was surrounding them. “This isn’t protecting me for my own good, it’s giving weight to rumors that I have had lovers and that you do not trust your own Consort to stay faithful.”

Derek was silent as they ascended the steps to the Sept. He made no attempt to talk to Stiles again, realizing for the first time how backhanding their actions were. He had been so lost once he was crowned, not knowing what was expected of him, or how to follow a protocol he never had to be bothered to learn.

Stiles prayed while in the Sept. He prayed to the Old Gods, remembering the way his mother had prayed many of the nights John was away. He prayed for a reprieve from it all, though he knew he wouldn’t get one.

“I would like to make a stop,” Stiles vocalized his want for the first time that evening.

Derek turned to look at Stiles. “Where to?” He simply asked.

“The orphanage in Flea Bottom.” Stiles ignored Peter’s snort of contempt.

“I don’t think that would be wise,” Derek started.

“I’ve been given troubling news,” Stiles explained. “During the war, I fought very hard for the orphans to have the King’s patronage.” He released a heavy breath. “I’ve been told that the Mad King’s gold has been swallowed up by the mistress watching over them.”

“You’re shocked that the Mad King was paying a woman who mistreated orphans?” Peter demanded.

Derek held up his hand, a gesture to silence his uncle. “Let him finish,” he stated.

“I think it will do us both good,” Stiles concluded, his eyes briefly drifting to Peter to see the man’s annoyance. “To be seen giving to the poor.”

Derek nodded, accepting Stiles’ reasoning.

“Flea Bottom isn’t a good idea,” Peter pressed, taking a stand next to Derek. “It’s a labyrinth down there, and if someone grabs him—”

“I’m right here,” Stiles loudly uttered, catching the attention of both men. “If someone tries to grab me, I can fight back,” he stated.

Derek sighed, giving Peter a look. “He’s not wrong—it would help appearances.”

“You’re out to ruin everything I’ve been working to preserve,” Peter countered.

~*~

Stiles was mortified by what he found. The children were all sickly looking, dirty beyond belief. There were more orphans than he had recalled being reported to him by the mistress. But even with the additions, his continual supply of gold should have been enough to afford decent clothes and meals.

Stiles tried to sit and talk with the children, to discover their stories. He found many shying away from him—fear in the children’s eyes for uttering a word.

Stiles was furious when he turned on the mistress.

“Why are they in old rags?” Stiles demanded of the woman, not caring that the children could hear him. “Their bellies are growling loud enough for me to hear.”

“Your Majesty, surely you see that there are too many, even with the war ending,” the madam nervously started.

“I give you plenty of gold to keep them well fed and clothed—to keep the roof over their heads,” Stiles sharply began as he took a step into the woman’s space. “Yet I find that you are wearing clothes made from the finest imported silk,” he made a point of grabbing the woman’s sleeve. “Your fingers are glittering with fine jewelry,” he roughly grasped the woman’s wrist when she tried to hide the gems from sight.

“You don’t understand—”

“I understand perfectly,” Stiles loudly snapped. “You thought you could take what gold I give to the children, because they are helpless to stop you.” He angrily huffed. “Well, no more. The children will be removed from your care.”

Stiles let Derek escort him out of the orphanage, glad that the Knights listened to Derek in keeping the woman away from them. He startled to a stop by Derek when there was people blocking their way. He offered a faint smile at them, pulling Derek alongside him.

Derek had to withhold from drawing his sword, feeling cornered by the worn and taut faces of the poor. He was glad for Stiles’ reassuring hand pulling him through the crowd and back to the main street.

“This was risky,” Derek concluded.

“But it was good to come,” Stiles ended, keeping a linked arm with Derek as the guards moved alongside them. “Please tell me you’ll have the children removed from that woman’s care,” he finally voiced.

“I’ll have the woman removed from the building,” Derek answered. “To uproot them would be a disservice to them. I’ll have someone else placed in charge.”

“Someone trustworthy,” Stiles added.

“Yes,” Derek replied. “Someone who will take care of them.”

Stiles nodded. “Thank you,” he softly spoke.

Derek tightened his hold on Stiles’ arm, a silent reassurance that they could make this work.

~*~

That night, just as Derek was undressing to get into a bath, Stiles barged into his rooms. His hands were in the middle of undoing the laces of his trousers when he realized Stiles had stroad into his rooms with purpose. He observed his husband with an interest in knowing what could cause such an abrupt outcry. 

Stiles threw his thorned belt at Derek’s feet, anger in his every movement as he ignored the sight of his half dressed husband before him. He had gone from feeling a blossoming admiration for Derek to outright despising him tonight. “How dare you,” he seethed. “I am not some piece of property—I am not your  _ pet _ , meant to have its things taken as some twisted form of punishment,” he hissed.

Derek looked down at the belt. He recognized it as Stiles’ favored belt—the one that killed the Mad King, and had been worn on their wedding day. He slowly bent to pick it up, looking at Stiles as he rose. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he simply stated.

“Your men are ransacking my room,” Stiles snapped. “I’m not allowed in my own rooms until they are done.”

“What?” Derek incredulously asked.

“Your guard,” Stiles loudly repeated. “Are you so thickheaded that you don’t understand simple words?”

Derek ignored Stiles’ barbed insult. “You’re mistaken. I haven’t sent anyone to your rooms,” he replied.

“I was  _ informed  _ that you ordered my belongings searched,” Stiles answered, his anger still evident.

Derek took a step towards Stiles, offering him the belt.

Stiles hesitated before childishly snatching the belt from Derek’s hand, taking it back. He didn’t want to be without it, but he was also determined not to lose anything else. If Derek wanted the stupid belt to feel safer, Stiles was prepared to part with it.

“I didn’t have your room searched,” Derek stated in a soft, calm tone. He loosely relaced the ties of his trousers, grabbing hold of his previously discarded shirt. He moved passed Stiles as he pulled the shirt on. He paused at the door, looking at Stiles. “You’re allowed to follow—if you want to know what’s happening with your rooms.”

Stiles immediately followed after Derek. He silently walked behind Derek, forcing his tears back as his anger started to simmer into hurt. He was embarrassed by Derek’s distrust in him, feeling ashamed at walking into his own rooms to find guards ransacking his belongings. He felt as if he was back with the Mad King as his jailer, wondering when he was going to be sent for—when his clothes would be torn off and he’d be forced to spread his legs for a King.

“Your Majesty,” the Kingsguard seemed surprised by Derek’s presence.

“My husband tells me troubling news,” Derek uttered, not bothering to greet the knight as he looked passed him. He could see only a small amount of the disarray Stiles’ belongings had been thrown into. “Who gave you the right to enter my Consort’s rooms and violate his privacy?”

Stiles was glad he had followed Derek. He wanted to see how the men would react to the one person they were obligated to obey.

“We were given orders of the highest importance—to search the rooms of the Consort for any and all threatening items,” the Knight concluded.

“Unless you think silk clothing is threatening, you won’t find anything,” Stiles angrily stated in annoyance.

“The Hand was worried about poisons, Your Majesty,” the Knight explained as he produced the written orders he carried.

Stiles stilled. “The Hand ordered you to … ” His voice trailed off, lost in his shock.

Derek snatched the parchment from the knight’s hold. “There must be a mistake,” he concluded, his eyes scanning the paper. “Stiles hasn’t made any threat against me—this is ridiculous, which I’m sure John knows.”

“Poisons not intended for you, Your Grace,” the knight offered.

Stiles looked away from the man, his mind spinning as his stomach churned. “I’m going to be sick,” he almost mumbled as he held his stomach.

Derek reached a hand out to steady Stiles. He looked at the guards still present. “Everyone leave—now,” he barked at them. He helped Stiles move to the unmade bed, getting Stiles to sit on the edge of the mattress.

The silence cut through the room once the heavy door shut behind the last guard.

“My father thinks … ” Stiles couldn’t finish the sentence.

“I’m sure your father has a reason …” Derek paused. He knew he couldn’t lie about this—there was no way for John to misinterpret the need to ransack his own son’s rooms. “No, I can’t argue in defense of what he’s done,” he finally changed his stance.

“I’m not—” Stiles stopped. “I haven’t poisoned myself, in any terms,” he broached the subject with caution. “I’ve not used the tea the maesters have either—the one for unwanted babies.”

Derek held his breath at that comment.

“I know what is thought about me,” Stiles started. “But I’ve not … there’s no need for me to try and abort a baby that isn’t there—that  _ couldn’t _ be there. And I know that’s what my father was looking for.”

Derek’s expression hardened.

“He wants there to be some kind of proof—some explanation as to why I am the way I am,” Stiles stated. He released a sad laugh, placing his head into his shaking hands. “He doesn’t see that he’s done this to me—he left me here, and made me … he made me become a survivor and now he hates me for it.”

Derek tightened his hold on the parchment in his hand, hearing the paper crinkle from the action. “I’ve no finesse for comforting,” he started. “But I will have a word with your father about this.”

Stiles refused to look at Derek, hiding his tears in his hands as he weakly nodded. He was glad to know he was alone when he heard Derek’s retreating steps before the door opening and shutting signalled his departure.

~*~

“You’ll never do something like that again,” Derek calmly stated as he placed the parchment on John’s desk.

“It was a necessity,” John unapologetically answered.

“He’s your son,” Derek started.

“Exactly,” John snapped at Derek. “He’s  _ my  _ son, and I will deal with this.”

“He isn’t something to be dealt with,” Derek loudly countered. He drew in a sharp breath before continuing, “You had the option to be King, John. But you refused, which lead to our current situation. Stiles is my Consort now, and he is to be treated with the respect that accompanies his title.”

John looked at Derek.

“You left your child in the capital with the Mad King,” Derek stated, keeping eye contact with John. “My sister died trying to save your son. My family in turn funded a war to save your son, and hold Viseryn accountable for his actions. I followed you into war, John, without doubts—without second thoughts. But I will not condone this.” He tapped his finger down on the parchment to make his point. “ _ This _ order shows Stiles that you see him the same way the rest of Westeros does. And it was a reputation given to him because of what he had to do in order to survive.”

John shook his head. “He’s not … he’s not my Mieczysław anymore. And it’s my fault.”

Derek frowned at that. “He’s still your son. He’s been guarded—for  _ years _ . Don’t give him reason to keep himself guarded.”

John remained silent as he turned to look away from Derek.

“I have tried to create a bond with Stiles, but every word I offer is met with a guarded response,” Derek admitted. “But I will keep trying to reach him, despite it all. Because he deserves that much.”

Derek left John in silence, unsure how to heal such a wound he had no knowledge of caring for.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loooooong chapter. This is probably the longest chapter in the bunch.
> 
> Warning: there is an attempted rape that is detailed in this chapter; skip to chapter end note for details.
> 
> This chapter also contains the first flashback of the Mad King, and part of what happened during the night of the rebellion.
> 
> A side note, John's mother is named Olynna Stilinski, I purposefully changed the character's name from GoT's original's character Olenna. I like the name more than anything original that I could come up with

Stiles watched as Lydia boarded the ship that would take her home to the Marshlands. He turned his gaze away from his last hope of escape, knowing that he would never leave King’s Landing now. He looked at his husband—his King—and knew that they would both be on their own from now on. He took Derek’s arm when it was offered, easily descending the small perch he was standing on. He turned to lift his cape in order to prevent it from catching. He caught sight of a dreadfully familiar face in the crowd. His steps stumbled, losing sight of the face before he started to desperately find it once more.

“What’s wrong?” Derek asked, sensing Stiles’ discomfort.

“I saw …” Stiles stopped himself, releasing a sigh. He was still seeing things that weren’t there—the death mask of a dragon. “Nothing. I saw nothing,” he quickly stated in dismissal.

Derek looked to where Stiles had been looking, only seeing the crowded occupants of King’s Landing gathered to see the spectacle before them.

Stiles slipped his arm from Derek as he moved to lift his robes out of the way of his feet, walking towards where the roads lead back to the High Keep. He didn’t have to pretend to be happy today—he said goodbye to one of the last few family members he had. He understood the reasoning, but he had a right to be bitter with Derek.

Stiles still resented Derek for sending Parrish away to become part of Lydia’s guard. He had no one he could trust in the High Keep’s guard now, knowing more than half of them had been obedient to the Mad King until the end.

Stiles disliked how his father pushed to the conclusion that the Kingsguard had to be forgiven—that too many families would be in upheaval over such a decision. He knew his father was right, in a way, when he considered the dishonor that was handed out with a dismissal from the Kingsguard. He still didn’t trust the men who helped the Mad King hurt so many.

Stiles allowed his father to stall him, holding him back as he waited for Derek to get in front of him. He didn’t look at his father, turning his head away when Derek passed him. He finally moved to follow after him.

“Are we still not speaking?” John asked as he walked beside his son.

“I didn’t realize you wanted to speak now,” Stiles calmly countered, offering a small smile to the different people cheering them.

“Stiles,” John tiredly sighed. “You know I want what is best for you.”

“I had no idea I was unable to decide what was best for myself,” Stiles uttered. “Did you think it was best for me to be left with the Mad King when I was still a child?” He critically looked at his father. “While you played at rebellion, with Derek being the warrior son you always wanted, I was taught how to reject a madman’s advances without angering him.”

“You know I had no choice in the way events played out,” John answered, his voice stern.

“And neither did I,” Stiles stated. “You planned my future out for me, without asking me how I would feel. You left me with a mad man, and married me off like a broodmare to the man that now wears the crown.”

“And I will always regret that,” John forcefully uttered. “I tried to come back for you.”

Stiles’ steps slowed, turning his head to look at his father.

“I was told … ” John’s voice cut off as he looked away from Stiles.

Stiles could see the anger and guilt in his father’s eyes for the first time. “He said he’d rape me, didn’t he?” He softly asked as he slowed to walk beside his father, forgetting about those gathered.

“It wouldn’t be just him,” John grit out. “That he’d slit your throat afterwards,” he weakly repeated the words that haunted him for those years.

Stiles took hold of his father’s hand, gentle in his touch as he tried to be reassuring. He could feel the tremble in his father’s arm. “You should have told me,” he spoke.

John was about to answer when he realized the crowd was changing in demeanor the further they traveled along the docks. “We should get back behind the Keep’s walls,” he simply stated, turning his attentions to the guards as he paused his conversation with Stiles.

“The people are just hungry,” Stiles commented, looking at the sunken features and worn clothes gracing the crowd. He had seen more of it in the orphanages than he would like to admit—though he had an inkling to where his coin was going when he saw the fattened belly of the head mistress. He turned to one of his handmaids, softly asking her to hand out what she could, with help from the guard.

“That’s not hunger in their eyes,” John replied. “That’s resentment.”

Stiles looked to his father, about to argue against that statement.

“Dragon’s whore!”

Stiles froze when he heard the words.

Derek turned to look at who spoke, only to realize it was a faceless person in the crowd.

A murmur started to go throughout the crowd, looks of protest at such a claim. Hundreds of eyes stared at Stiles, as if they were curious how he would react to such a slander.

Stiles tried to act calmly as he clasped his hands loosely before his stomach, turning his attention towards the road. He heard more words being spoken at louder volumes, making it seem like there were dozens of voices throughout the crowd.

Vulgar words spat with venom, whipping the gathered crowd into a frenzy.

_ Dragon’s whore. Wolf’s bitch. Baby killer. Rancid womb. _

Stiles turned his head to try and find where the voices were coming from, feeling alone and abandoned, the same way he felt whenever the Court would whisper about the Mad King’s intentions with him. He recalled how so many would look on and comment, but none would offer a helping hand. No one but the young Lady Hale who had come to Court with the sole intention of rescuing Stiles. He almost startled when a hand grabbed his arm. He looked at the owner, finding it to be Derek.

Derek protectively pulled Stiles under his arm, turning to escort him the rest of the way. He knew to address the cries of the crowd would only be met with resistance. He heard the screams first, turning his head to look at the source. He saw the blood staining the cobblestones, too many royal guards in the way for him to see who it was, only catching a glimpse of the ragged clothes the dead man wore.

“What happened?” Derek demanded, his voice being lost once the crowd replied with screams.

Suddenly there was chaos, too many people in the crowd reacting.

Derek turned to John, grabbing the older man as he pushed Stiles towards him. “Get Stiles back to the Keep.”

Stiles startled when blood spattered from Derek’s back, watching in fear as Derek staggered from the impact. He felt the same terror creeping up on him that gripped his heart when the Mad King had pulled him close in the throne room—when he thought he was about to lose everything. He knew Derek’s statements on their wedding night were true—without Derek, Stiles would be the only lynchpin connected to the throne. And without a Hale baby growing in him, Stiles was an object to be snatched at first chance.

John tightened his hold on Stiles as the Kingsguard saw to Derek. He pulled Stiles away from the crowd, towards the royal guard. “Get him back inside,” he ordered a Kingsguard.

Stiles tightly held onto his father’s arm as he was pushed into the arms of the Kingsguard.

“Get to safety,” John instructed him, hoping Stiles wouldn’t argue as he turned back to the rioters.

Derek allowed the men to pull him to safety, finding it difficult to make sense of what was happening. Once behind the initial wall of the servant’s entrance to the Keep, he relaxed against one of the many boxed imports. He opened his tunic, grimacing in pain when the Maester pressed a hand to the wound in attempts to inspect it. “I’m fine,” he snapped when one of the advisors hovered near him. “Get the guards back in the Keep, away from the people.”

“Your Majesty, they are attacking our men— they attacked you—”

“They are starving,” Derek snapped, looking at the closest advisor. “I don’t know who hit me, but it wasn’t some starving poor person—it was someone who knew what they were doing.” He pulled his tunic back on, annoyed with the way the Maester continued to pester him. “I’ve had worse on the battlefield,” he quickly stated in hopes it would shut the man up.

“If this was a planned assault, it was someone vying for the throne,” an advisor quickly stated.

“It could have been any family—”

“Though I think we all know who it likely was,” Derek announced to the men, daring them to defend the Argents. He turned to look at the door opening, catching sight of Lord Stilinski entering. “Where’s Stiles?” He quickly demanded when he saw John was entering the Keep’s holdings alone.

John was disheveled, looking as if he had to fight his way to the door. He looked bewildered by Derek’s question. “He’s not here?”

“I left him with you,” Derek replied, slight confusion falling over him.

John turned on his heel, searching for the faces of the Kingsguard he ordered to protect Stiles. His blood ran cold when he realized they were nowhere to be found.

~*~

Stiles stumbled as one of the men shoved him into another. He made a valiant attempt to hit away the hands that grabbed at his garments.

“They say the King didn’t get to fuck him yet,” one of them stated.

“That makes one more king that’s failed,” another laughed.

“He’s nothing special under those,” the Kingsguard knight stated with a smirk. “We saw him—in the Sept of Baelor. Trembling like a bitch—”

Stiles reacted quickly, whirling around, punching the knight that pulled on his trousers. He was knocked off balance when the man backhanded him, hard enough to split his lip. He tried to scramble back onto his feet, his body hastily spread eagle on the ground. He could feel the cape being ripped from his outfit, part of his vest now torn open. He thrashed his limbs when hands grabbed at his ankles.

“Let me go!” Stiles yelled when the grips on him tightened, yanking him back. Rough hands flipped Stiles onto his back with some difficulty, too many pairs for him to fight off. He managed to get one arm free, clawing his nails into the throat of the knight between his legs. He felt the blood beneath his nails, but knew he hadn’t dug deep enough to stop the man. Hands once again roughly restrained his arms. “No! Stop!”

“Dragon’s whore,” the man laughed, using a dagger to slip beneath the hem of Stiles’ trousers, cutting through the material. “You weren’t even that. Now you’ll just be a used hole to fuck.”

“Even a wolf won’t want to fuck you after we’re done,” the man holding one of Stiles’ ankles commented.

Stiles clenched his eyes shut, hoping he could just endure whatever they intended.

“This won’t be quick,” the knight uttered close to his ear. “A nice and slow humiliation is what they wanted for you.”

Stiles struggled as best he could, frightened memories of the Mad King came rushing back. He tried to recall the vacant place in his mind he used to seal his consciousness away in—the place he stopped feeling scared. He felt void when his trousers were torn open, his skin exposed. He still struggled, desperately trying to save himself, knowing no one was coming for him. He wasn’t sure what he felt stir in his stomach as he helplessly watched the Kingsguard between his thrashing legs undid the ties of his own trousers.

Stiles was confused when one of his legs was freed, a loud cry of pain cutting through his struggling. He kicked the knight in the stomach, shoving the man back from him. He stared in silenced shock as he saw one of the men lying in a pool of his own blood. He looked up in time to see his rescuer wound the Kingsguard knight, breaking the man’s leg under his boot. He was freed from the person holding his arms, allowing him to scoot away from the fighting. He heard his rescuer slicing open one of the men’s throats as he tried to flee.

Stiles recognized Derek’s cloak.

Derek turned back to Stiles, his sword still drawn as he reached his free hand out to Stiles. “You’re safe,” he stated in reassurance, unable to deny his own happiness that Stiles quickly and willingly reached for his hand.

Stiles moved to his feet, standing beside Derek before reaching for him. He’d hate himself later for it, but he needed the comfort and intimacy. He wanted to know he was safe.

Derek instinctively moved his arm around Stiles, holding him close. He looked passed Stiles’ head to see the stained Kingsguard cloak on one of the dead bodies. He turned to the living man, ready to tear him apart for his treachery.

Stiles moved first. He slipped his hand around the hilt, taking hold of the weapon from Derek. He was happy that Derek let him. He took the few steps necessary to get close to the wounded knight, watching him trying to crawl away. He made his intentions known as he slowly raised the blade, moving to press it just below the Kingsguard armored plate around the man’s torso. He ripped the sword back when the knight grabbed the blade with his bare hands, slicing through the man’s palms. He quickly moved to place the point of the blade lower, pressing it into the man’s groin.

Stiles saw the blood seeping through his trousers, but he couldn’t find himself caring in the moment. He shoved the sword up into the man’s belly, listening to him scream in pain. He released his hold on the sword when he was confident the man was dead. He took a stumbling step back, his back colliding into Derek’s body. He let Derek take hold of him, only moving to wrap an arm around Derek’s shoulders when Derek lifted him up into his arms. He placed his face into the curve of Derek’s neck, hiding away from the eyes of anyone who would see them once they arrived at the Keep. He decided that he deserved at least this much.

And it appeared that Derek agreed with him.

“Stiles!” John quickly uttered when he realized that it was his son Derek was carrying through the gate.

“Your Majesty, you were rash to—”

“Shut up,” Derek snapped at the old advisor, having no patience left. He walked by several other wounded and bloodied courtiers and guards. He moved to set Stiles down on one of the many crates. He inspected Stiles’ wounds, carefully handling the already bruising skin of his wrists. He reached a hand up, his finger catching Stiles’ chin as he forced him to look up.

Stiles looked at Derek, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“It was reckless for you to leave,” an older courtier started. “If you had died—”

“I wouldn’t be a King worth respecting if I left my husband out there,” Derek snapped at the man, looking away from Stiles for the first time.

“You should have let me gone,” John pressed, not allowing the other men a chance at speaking. He stepped towards Stiles, placing his hand on Stiles’ shoulder.

Stiles reached his hand up to cover John’s.

“If I had died, you would have had your chance,” Derek replied, turning back to Stiles. 

Even with Derek’s longer cloak wrapped around Stiles, it was obvious that his clothes were torn. There was no hiding that fact from those sober enough to register it. Rumors would spread, and there was little to be done but brace for them.

Stiles pulled the cloak tighter around his shoulders, holding onto the fabric. He wished Derek had taken them inside, away from the others.

He wished a lot of things, actually.

~*~

Rumors swirled with questions about Stiles’  _ integrity _ , as they called it, still being intact for the King. Servants knew the King had left Stiles on their wedding night—Kingsguard knew that the King never frequented Stiles’ bedroom, either.

It left the kingdoms wondering if the King would ever go to Stiles’ bed, now with the growing rumors that he had been defiled in every way imaginable. That it was the King who flew into a rage when finding his husband—his  _ property _ —being defiled by those meant to protect them.

And just like with the Mad King’s death, a mythos was born. The men who loved Stiles were all men of well regard and significant standing—but when fate would call, they turned into violent, possessive creatures who punished those that dared to lay an unworthy hand on Stiles.

Nobody suspected that it was Stiles who gutted the Kingsguard. Just as no one suspected that it was Stiles who garroted the Mad King to death.

When Derek relieved those in the Kingsguard of their duty, there was a rush of outrage that moved through the masses. Though no one could argue that Derek was in his right to choose new Kingsguard.

Stiles was sitting beside Derek in the throne room when he relieved the men of their duty. He could feel their hatred for him, even in the deafening silence. Though he wouldn’t argue that he felt safer when Derek promoted those in the Royal guard. He always found Boyd and Isaac to be kind when the others would regard Stiles with caution. He thanked Derek when Boyd was promoted to guarding Stiles.

After such turmoil, lies began to fester in every corner of the kingdoms. Beliefs were being spread that Stiles was a witch, casting out any healthy baby he managed to conceive. Others fabricated lies that Derek had beaten Stiles to the point that he miscarried the bastard child conceived in Flea Bottom.

The lies spread so quickly, that Lydia had heard of them in the Marshes. Urgent letters followed.

“It’s something to be concerned of, should these rumors of Stiles’ virtue and Derek’s impotency continue. Please realize these as concerns of State and not an attack on character—I urge that you take caution when dealing with these scandalous accusations,” John concluded Lydia’s letter as he looked over at Derek. His gaze wandered to Stiles. He had noticed his son wearing darker colors as of late, his garments changing to the more reserved designs of the North—it was a welcomed adoption of Derek’s culture that the Court noticed and praised Stiles for.

But John knew the truth of the matter—the events of Flea Bottom scared Stiles, as they would any sane person.

Stiles was silently staring out the window, knowing that he had nothing to offer. He knew there was no stopping a rumor once it spread.

“I think people need to learn that others’ beds are not their concern,” Derek finally offered as he remained sitting at the table.

“I agree with you,” John answered, placing a gentle hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “But they’ll keep talking until there is an heir.” He pulled back when he saw the way Stiles tensed some. He took Lydia’s letter and dropped it down into the fireplace.

“Perhaps we should fuck in the streets,” Stiles finally spoke, his voice empty of emotion. “Would that satisfy them?” He asked as he turned to look at his father.

Derek looked at Stiles.

“Rumors can’t be squashed, no matter what you do to them,” Stiles continued, turning back to the window as he looked out to the sea. “Even if I managed to give you an heir within the next year, rumors would be brewing that it was a bastard child, forced into me by one of my many rapists.” He turned to look at his father and Derek. “And if we went the other way of just publicly displayed our sexual exploits together, they would say the gods are cross with us should I not give you an heir within the year.”

John frowned, knowing that Stiles’ words held some truth to them.

“I’m willing to attempt whatever it is you are proposing, Stiles,” Derek honestly offered.

Stiles looked at Derek. “We should have a festival,” he plainly stated. “Lydia has offered more than enough goods for us to host such a gathering. And the rest … well, the Hales are one of the wealthiest families in all of Westeros, are you not?”

Derek caught the way Stiles distanced himself from his family name. He chose to ignore it this time. “We are.”

“Then we should throw a banquet, in dedication to our marriage festivities being darkened by this revolting act of violence against the Throne,” Stiles finished. “Invite all of King’s Landing to partake—the rich, the poor, all of them.”

Derek looked at John, catching the way the man hesitated.

“It could help shift views in our favor,” John offered.

“Then we shall have a banquet, it seems,” Derek concluded. He nodded to John in parting as he watched the older man depart. He turned his attentions towards Stiles.

They hadn’t talked about what happened during the riot. Stiles was closed off, pretending that he had nothing to say to anyone about the matter. But Derek knew it had gotten under Stiles’ skin—as it would with anyone subjected to such terror.

“How are you?” Derek asked, daring to break the silence.

Stiles turned away from the window, looking at Derek. He blankly observed his husband. “That’s all you have?” He faintly asked.

“At least it’s an attempt,” he countered.

Stiles scoffed at that before turning away from Derek again.

“Fine,” Derek sighed, moving to stand. “I’m sorry for interrupting your time,” he curtly uttered. He was annoyed with every attempt he made being met with barbed answers.

Stiles turned to see Derek’s retreating back. “I’m tired,” he loudly stated, knowing he caught Derek’s attention when he had stopped walking.

Derek turned to look back at Stiles.

Stiles shook his head, his arms taut against his chest as he shrugged his shoulders. “Everywhere I go, for the past ten years, has been constantly watched. I’m not allowed friends—I’m in a loveless marriage of convenience. I’ve now had my clothes torn from my body twice, in events I would like nothing more than to scrub from memory.” He closed his eyes, shaking his head. “I’m called ‘Dragon’s Whore’, yet I’ve never known the touch of a lover. I dreamed, for years, of the day that madman would die so I could go home. Instead, my own father used me as a bargaining chip, placing me strategically on the board so now I can never leave.” He looked at Derek again, knowing the tears in his eyes were visible. “Do you not understand that?”

Derek observed Stiles carefully. “You think I don’t know how any of that feels?” He finally asked. “I’ve fought a war I had no faith in, against the man that murdered my sister, all while he slathered over your neck.”

Stiles’ features tightened at the mention of Derek’s family. “I had nothing to do with that—”

“I heard how you begged for Laura,” Derek uttered. “Trust me, it’s the only reason I even entertained the idea of accepting this arrangement.”

Stiles looked away from Derek.

“Whether you like it or not, we’re stuck together on this journey,” Derek continued. “Our vows in the Sept of Baelor are irreversible, even in death. The quicker we both accept that, the sooner we can manage it all.”

“I want to  _ live _ , not  _ manage _ ,” Stiles sharply countered. “I don’t want to be a target anymore.”

Derek weakly shook his head at that. “I can’t promise you that you’ll be safe—you’ll never be safe as the Consort, and I truly am sorry for that.” He took a few calculated steps forward, making sure he didn’t corner Stiles in doing so. “But I promise you, I will never treat you the way the Mad King did.”

Stiles trembled at those words.

“I can’t know what you went through while here with him,” Derek continued, speaking in a calm and collected voice. “All I ask of you is to realize that I am not him, nor am I your enemy in this.” He wanted to reach out and comfort Stiles, but he wasn’t certain his touch would be welcomed, and he refused to cross that boundary without Stiles’ consent. “Just know that you’re not the only one who is tired.” He left Stiles with that, knowing it was likely more than he should have offered. He hoped it reached Stiles on some level.

Derek took his time descending the steps from the Tower of the Hand, knowing that Stiles would rather be alone now. He asked Boyd to keep alert to any sound or noise that could be a potential threat. Even if it was Stiles trying to harm himself. He dreaded the thought of Stiles being so miserable that death seemed the better alternative than a married life with him.

Derek’s steps lightened when he heard voices coming from the Throne room. He paused by the door, watching the heated argument between John and an older woman.

“You weren’t supposed to come here—”

“I’m old John, not deaf,” the woman snapped at John. “I know you didn’t want me coming here. And don’t you dare take that tone of voice with me,” she threatened, narrowing her eyes at him. “You, and that rhubarb of a grandniece, had the nerve to plot my grandson’s future away without asking.”

“Mother,” John firmly uttered. “Stop.”

“Oh, upset that I’m reprimanding you against your will?” John’s mother pressed. “Now imagine how Stiles feels.”

Derek looked at the two of them, wondering if he should bother interjecting. He realized his error in lingering too late when the woman’s eyes caught sight of him.

“I suppose you have something to do with my grandson’s imprisonment here as well,” John’s mother started, directing her attention towards Derek.

John turned to see that Derek had joined them. “Mother, stop, Derek has nothing to do with this.”

“He’s King of Westeros, and you say he had nothing to do with  _ marrying _ himself to Stiles,” the woman sharply countered John. “You plotted and planned, tying Stiles to that infernal metal chair,” she wildly gestured at the Iron Throne, and Derek could see the likeness Stiles shared with her. “Something he always hated and never wanted anything to do with, I might add.”

“Stiles and I share that distaste,” Derek finally spoke up, his voice catching the woman’s off guard.

John cleared his throat, taking advantage of the sudden lull in his mother’s rage. “Your Majesty, this is my mother, Olynna Stilinski, the Lady of Horns of High Garden.”

Olynna coldly regarded Derek, her eyes deep blue pools of guarded ice that cut to the core. “The wolf that mounted the stag,” she stated in distaste. “Forgive me if I am not thrilled, Your Majesty.”

“You’re about as thrilled as I was when they informed me of all this,” Derek calmly replied.

Olynna made a faint noise of interest. “So you’re not just a mindless brute who knows how to swing a hammer. You have actual feelings, it appears, which is a nice change of pace,” she pointedly looked at John. She turned her attention back to Derek. “I would like to see my grandson now,” she announced.

Derek looked at John briefly before nodding. “I believe Stiles would like that a great deal.”

“Of course he would,” Olynna simply put. “I was at High Garden, preparing for Stiles’ return when I heard of your marriage,” she started, giving Derek a stern look. “But now seeing as that will likely never happen, I’ve brought many of his favorite things with me. Most of them are cuisine related, some of them are mementos of his mother.” She gave John a parting glance. “I assume you wouldn’t be against that, would you?”

John shook his head. “Of course not.”

“I would be very pleased to know Stiles was reunited with such things,” Derek answered her.

“Good,” Olynna replied, moving to walk passed both John and Derek. “The handsome cherub with golden locks told me Stiles was in the Tower of the Hand with you two,” she explained.

Derek assumed she was talking about Isaac having given her directions.

“And given that you both came from this direction, I’m guessing this is the way,” Olynna finished. “Gods, I need new knees,” she commented, seeing the height of the tower through the stained glass behind the throne.

“Lady Olynna,” Derek called after her, turning to face the woman.

Olynna looked over her shoulder at Derek.

“The gold belt Stiles wears,” Derek started. “The one with roses and thorns.” He knew Olynna was aware of which belt he was speaking of when she didn’t react. “Did you have it made for him?”

“It was a gift, for his fourteenth name day,” Olynna simply answered. “The Mad King thanked me for such a gift.” There was a soft smug amusement in her smile. “Are you a fan of it, Your Majesty?”

The threat was evident for anyone who knew what the belt was capable of.

“Yes,” Derek simply stated. “Without it, things would have been very different.”

~*~

“What a dreary day.”

Stiles turned to look at the owner of the voice, a sudden weight lifting off his chest when he saw that it was his grandmother.

“I was told my prized flower was married off to a wolf,” Olynna stated as she walked into the room. “So, imagine my surprise when I was informed that I could not attend such a spectacle.”

Stiles rose from his seat, rushing to his grandmother. He hugged her tightly. “I’ve missed you,” he breathily uttered, closing his eyes as he held onto her. He pulled back to look at his grandmother. “But Lydia said—”

“Pish, tosh,” Olynna replied with a wave of her hand. “I adore you, and no one—not even the Duchess of the Marshes—is going to keep me from being with you at a time like this.”

Stiles softly smiled at her, hugging her tightly once more. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you.

Olynna lightly laughed. “I am still as decrepit as before,” she answered, pulling back from Stiles to observe him. “You, on the other hand, have blossomed quite lovely.” She held out Stiles’ arms to get a full look at him. She reached a hand out to cup Stiles’ cheek in her palm. “You look a great deal like your mother.”

Stiles sadly smiled at that.

“You have her spirit too,” Olynna added. “You’d have to, in order to survive this mockery.”

Stiles closed his eyes, shaking his head. “Grandma, this has been horrible.”

“I’d say,” Olynna replied. “Only a select few in attendance to your wedding, no grandeur—then this whole mess with the riot in Flea Bottom.”

“I didn’t want this,” he started.

“We never want this,” Olynna answered, brushing her fingers through Stiles’ hair as she observed him. “But the world is determined to have you be Consort—forced to stand beside the fool that sits on that iron chair.”

A tremble moved through Stiles. “I want to go home,” he pressed. “Instead, my family tied me to a throne without considering my feelings in the matter.”

Olynna frowned at that. “Would you have another tied to the throne?”

Stiles looked at his grandmother.

“If you could have chosen the next King, who would you choose?” Olynna inquired.

Stiles thought about her question, knowing that she was correct. There was a solace knowing that the position of consort was not held by someone abominable. He did have more power at Derek’s side than he would have in High Garden.

“He’s not ugly,” Olynna uttered.

“Grandma,” Stiles sighed.

“What?” Olynna questioned, acting as if she was harmless in saying such things. “He is a very handsome young man,” she added. “Young, strong, noble. Have you compared him to the monster you could have married?”

“I wanted to be allowed to choose,” Stiles specified.

“Ah,” Olynna uttered in understanding. “We always like to believe we have a choice in the matter.” She sighed, looking around the room. “I’ve been told they wanted your head,” she stated with no care for artful tact this time. She looked at Stiles to know that he understood her. “And from what happened in Flea Bottom, I’m guessing you were lucky to escape—but those were not the people attacking you, but other houses.”

Stiles crossed his arms in front of his chest. He still had moments of panic when left in a room alone with a knight. He felt the panic rise whenever his robes caught on a table’s edge, or something brushed against him to cause the material to pull. He had managed to keep it under check, but he knew his fears were still lurking.

“Your head belongs nowhere but on your lovely neck,” Olynna concluded.

“I’m hiding behind him,” Stiles replied. “They call me a Dragon’s Whore, and a Wolf’s Bitch,” he bitterly uttered. “And now the Argents are calling for Derek’s right to the Iron Throne to be challenged.”

“A Hale has more claim to these kingdoms than any other house now that the Targaryen line has been extinguished,” Olynna answered. “Better a Hale than an Argent.”

Stiles looked at Olynna. “That’s not that comforting,” he answered.

“You once thought the world of him, you know,” Olynna commented.

Stiles’ brow furrowed.

“You were only six, but you followed him around like a puppy,” Olynna replied, holding onto Stiles’ hands as she moved them to sit beside one another. “His parents sent him to Storm’s End for him to train with your father.” She reached a hand up, fingertips tucking a stray strand of hair behind Stiles’ ear. “Your father told you not to bother the lad. But instead, you just followed after him, giving him every little flower you managed to pluck within your reach.” She faintly laughed. “The boy had flower petals falling out of his pockets during his training exercises.”

“I was a child,” Stiles replied, blushing in his embarrassment. “Of course I was infatuated with a new person.”

Olynna shrugged. “He was adorable then, and he’s quite handsome now that he’s a man.”

“You keep saying that,” Stiles answered, turning from his grandmother. “It doesn’t change the fact that I don’t know him, nor did I want this marriage.”

Olynna’s lips twisted into a displeased pout. “Well, you can do something about the first thing,” she started. “Talk to him,” she plainly stated when Stiles looked at her. “Get to know his interests. He has to do more than swing that warhammer around.”

Stiles sighed, knowing his grandmother was right.

“But, I’m also about to say something I know you won’t like,” Olynna began.

Stiles groaned.

“There is nothing wrong in waiting for intimacy to grow,” Olynna admitted. “But—”

“Grandma, I don’t want to hear this,” Stiles answered.

“Well, you’re going to hear it,” Olynna gently replied with a fondness in her voice. “I love you, and want you to be happy, but you are far more capable of seducing than you give yourself credit for.”

Stiles stared at his grandmother. “You want me to … lie to him? Make him think I want him?”

“He’s a Hale,” Olynna simply stated. “Hales are known to put honor above selfish desire. Even if he wanted to bed you, he wouldn’t until you moved first.”

“I don’t understand how that—”

“You’re a great actor, Stiles,” Olynna stated. “You traversed the Mad King’s court artfully, you’ve even made the people believe you are content with Derek as a husband and King.”

Stiles stared at his grandmother.

“Now make  _ him _ believe that,” Olynna concluded, her tone soft but serious. “Make love to him so that no other person will be able to scratch that itch for him. Give him smiles that steal his attention from all others. Give him children—royal, legitimate heirs to distract everyone else.”

“You make it sound like a game,” Stiles bitterly stated.

“It is, in the end,” Olynna answered. “You best learn how to play it, and making quick work of your new husband is the best way to do so.”

~*~

Stiles barely ate what was on his plate, sipping at his wine instead. He looked across the table at his father, noticing how cautious he looked of Olynna.

Olynna had been offering small talk throughout the dinner, electing to keep her sharpness at bay.

Derek had managed to avoid such interactions with family members until now. He was tired with issues of State piling up, and he knew something was likely to implode from this. His gaze was on Stiles, seeing how confined he still was.

“I’ve heard some troubling things in the streets,” Olynna suddenly stated, catching everyone’s attention. She appeared to be preoccupied with her meal to be too concerned about her own words.

“I’m sure it’s just gossip, mother,” John answered, part of him knowing that his mother had some motive behind her words.

“I’ve heard talk about a royal baby,” Olynna simply stated, looking from John to Derek. “Is it true?”

Derek relaxed in his chair, folding his hands in his lap. He wondered which rumor she was referring to. “I think Stiles would know better than me,” he simply stated.

Stiles looked at Derek then his grandmother. “I’m not sure what you’re asking, grandmother,” he finally spoke.

“Did you miscarry?”

Stiles gave her a stern look. He was annoyed that she played the ignorant fool, even with him in the room. He wanted to know why.

“You’re referring to the rumors of me beating him, then,” Derek stated, catching the attention of the whole table.

“Well, you are a brute,” Olynna replied.

“You expect me to reply categorically,” Derek answered in kind.

“Derek hasn’t touched me,” Stiles stated as he looked at his grandmother.

“I think that part obvious,” Olynna answered. “You haven’t shared a bed, and the longer you go without an heir, the more these rumors are going to spread.”

Stiles sighed.

“I think my personal favorite rumor is the one about you being a vile witch,” Olynna stated as she looked at Stiles. “Brewing cauldrons of potions to abort all unwanted babies.”

“We’re aware of the rumors,” John firmly stated. “They’re vile lies, to fuel the Argents. Stiles has done nothing wrong.”

Stiles looked at his father, a weight coming off his shoulders some at hearing his father speak those words.

“Well, you best start trying to handle them,” Olynna replied.

“And how would we handle them to your liking, Lady Olynna?” Derek asked, cutting through the glares John and Olynna were sharing.

“Fuck him,” Olynna plainly stated.

Stiles choked on his wine. “Grandma,” he harshly coughed, his face reddening.

Derek merely blinked, no outward reaction indicating that he even heard Olynna’s suggestion.

“No kingdom prospered on having two prudish rulers,” Olynna calmly stated. “Without an heir, this falls apart. There are already too many houses without enough heirs as it is.”

Derek released a soft huff of annoyance. He recalled how pressed his parents had been to produce more heirs when the flames of rebellion started. He considered it lucky—easier, even—that his parents actually cared for one another.

“With that being said, I’m thinking John should remarry as well,” Olynna announced.

Stiles stared at his grandmother.

John forcefully set his cup down, looking at Olynna. “That’s enough, mother.”

“Is it?” Olynna asked, acting as if she was clueless to what she was stirring. “You have no heir for Storm’s End now,” she simply stated. “And if it’s taking these two so long to get even one heir between them, what do you think is going to happen to both Storm’s End and High Garden?”

Stiles reached a hand up to his chest, his fingers playing with the locket that rested there. The thought of his father remarrying turned Stiles’ stomach sour. He felt betrayed by his grandmother for even suggesting such a thing.

“Lydia has a sound claim on High Garden now,” John began.

“And that rhubarb doesn’t have a spouse, let alone an heir to pass both that and the Marshes to,” Olynna replied with a scoff. She kept her gaze on John. “You need a second heir, and you’re young enough still to marry again and have one.”

A muscle in John’s jaw ticked, his hand fisted tightly against the table. “Mother—”

“I loved Claudia,” Olynna suddenly stated, the harshness in her voice dissipating. “Down to my bones, I loved that girl.” She cleared her throat, the first sign that she had been affected by the conversation. “But she’s dead, John. And the only way to keep alive in this world is to keep moving.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” John barely replied. “Expecting me to—”

“Expecting you to marry for the good of the kingdoms?” Olynna incredulously finished. “Well, imagine that, a parent forcing a child to marry.”

Stiles looked at Olynna.

“Don’t be such a hypocrite, John,” Olynna lowly added.

Derek looked at Stiles, watching the way he agitatedly played with the locket. “I think John’s prospect of nuptials is something we can discuss at a much later date,” he began, looking at Olynna. “You’ll be staying with us for a while, will you not? I’m sure Stiles would enjoy your company now that Lydia has left.”

Stiles looked at Derek. “I would,” he softly confirmed, grateful that Derek intervened.

“I will be here for a few days, nothing more,” Olynna admitted. “I can’t meddle here forever,” she offered when she noticed Stiles’ frown.

“At least we have you for now,” Stiles answered.

“I will never leave you here alone,” Olynna replied, moving to hold Stiles’ hand against the edge of the table.

~*~

Lydia sent entertainers to be a part of the festival, while John worked to arrange for the South to send their own artisans. Olynna brought more than enough finery with her when she arrived from High Garden, much to the treasury’s thanks. All of King’s Landing was abuzz with excitement when the day of celebration arrived.

Stiles dedicated his time to the orphans in attendance. He sat on the ground with the children, not caring about the dirt staining his fine clothes, despite his hand servant’s protests. He welcomed one of the youngest to sit in his lap as he listened to their stories—both happy and sad tales. He told the happiest stories he could remember from his own childhood, his tales producing such wonderment for the children.

“When I was young, I had met a young lord training to be a Kingsguard,” Stiles wove an excellent story for them. “He was brave and handsome, though much younger than the others. He could outrun the fastest of my father’s knights. He had strength that matched an ox.”

The children were leaning forward, listening to Stiles’ story.

“I would pick flowers for him,” Stiles continued. “He pretended that he didn’t like them, but he secretly loved them,” he artfully lied, not truly knowing how Derek had felt about those foolish childhood days—Stiles trailing after Derek, handfuls of flowers being offered up to the older boy.

“Was he mean?” One of the children asked.

Stiles looked at the child. “No, of course not,” he softly shook his head.

“The knights have always been mean to us,” the child in Stiles’ lap faintly uttered.

“What about the knights now?” Stiles asked, wishing to know the unbiased truth.

“They’re different,” one child replied. “King Derek has nice knights now.”

“He does,” Stiles agreed.

Derek strolled to a stop by the gathering, watching as Stiles entertained the children. He ignored the courtiers trying to catch his favor, knowing they wanted more gold or more sanctions that would benefit them and no other. He listened to the story Stiles told—the one about when Stiles fell into the well, his arm broken as he cried for his papa in the dark place. He remembered being the one lowered down, the only other person small enough to fit but strong enough to lift Stiles out. A fondness twisted in his gut, memories of a time when Stiles would have smiled brightly at him, a flower’s petals being outstretched towards him.

“How did he get you out?” One of the girls asked, a twinkle in her eye.

“Did he lift you in his arms?”

“Did you hug him tightly?”

“How did the rope not break?”

“He actually punched me in the face,” Derek offered.

All the children turned in excitement, noticing the King.

Stiles looked at Derek, remaining silent as he looked back at the children.

“You can’t fit in a well,” one child accused Derek.

“No, I don’t think I can now,” Derek stated with light amusement. “But to be fair, neither can he.”

“You got to marry your knight!” One boy suddenly gasped.

“He slew the Dragon King!” A girl excitedly added. “Rescued his damsel!”

“Ser John slew the Dragon King, you nit,” another girl countered.

“Ser John wasn’t going to marry his own son,” a boy wrinkled his nose.

“But King Derek lead the charge,” she stuck her tongue out at the other girl. “So that counts.”

“My, what a visage,” an older man’s voice broke through the children’s bickering ones.

Derek tensed, his hand tightening on his sword handle as he turned to look at the owner of such an unpleasant voice. “Lord Argent,” he almost growled the name.

“Your Majesty,” Gerard uttered, his sincerity ruined by the barely hidden amusement in his voice. “It’s something to see your Consort, surrounded by children.” He looked at Stiles, noticing that the younger man was preoccupied with answering the children’s questions. “And in the muck, no less.”

“Clothes can be washed,” Derek countered, his hand itching to draw his weapon and end the man without further discussion.

Oh how he wished he could, without the label of Mad King looming over him.

“The filth suits him,” Gerard stated.

Derek turned an eye on Gerard. “Watch your words, Gerard.” He didn’t care that the man pretended to be surprised by his warning. He knew what games Gerard liked to play.

“I’m sure he meant no disrespect,” Stiles’ voice interrupted the silent glares the two men shared. He had risen from his spot next to the children, pretending to turn and observe his clothes. “I suppose I did make a mess of my clothes, but the children appeared to be pleased with my presence.” He hooked his arm with Derek’s, leaning against him as he waited for the tension to dissipate.

“Always what the children need,” Gerard commented, a tick of annoyance in his voice. “You’ve been a very kind patron to them,” he continued. “Even got King Viseryn to play patron for a while there.”

Stiles dug his fingertips into Derek’s arm, holding onto Derek tightly when he felt Derek sway with movement. “The Mad King was insane, but saw innocence that needed assistance.”

“I don’t think we knew the same King, Your Highness,” Gerard countered. “He saw innocence as a lie—something that needed to be corrected.” He paused long enough to observe Stiles. “I dare say that was one of the reasons he favored you for so long.”

“You’ve crossed many lines today, Gerard,” Derek lowly stated before Stiles could counter the man’s words. “I warn you to choose your next words carefully, should you like to keep your tongue.”

“If I didn’t know His Majesty better, I would say that was a threat on my person,” Gerard pointlessly uttered.

Derek took a firm step forward, walking directly into Gerard’s space.

Stiles slipped his hand into Derek’s, holding him back.

“A dog nipping at the heels of his betters,” Gerard muttered under his breath. “I bid you a good festival, Your Majesty, for who knows when one will come again.”

Derek refused to watch the man leave, his anger flaring at Gerard’s audacity.

“He wants you to react,” Stiles calmly uttered.

“He wants my head on a platter, and your legs spread for his son,” Derek lowly growled.

Stiles turned to look at the others gathered, making a calm gesture to have Derek walk with him. He wanted the eyes and ears of the Court too far to overhear them. “He’s a proud man that lost many investments when you rose to the throne,” he explained, his arm wrapped around Derek’s as they strolled through the festival’s grounds, Kingsguard walking close behind. “He looks to make you uneasy—wishing you to show unprompted anger.”

“My anger with him isn’t unprompted,” Derek almost snapped at Stiles.

“He insulted you,” Stiles honestly admitted. “With a verbal jest, not an act of treason.” He tightened his grip on Derek’s bicep, forcing him to pause their walk. “You promised me you weren’t the Mad King.”

“I’m not,” Derek truthfully uttered, looking at Stiles as he ignored the others gawking.

“Then don’t bend to others,” Stiles replied. “Being a King is more than hearing what you want, or silencing what you don’t want. The Mad King did as he liked, and hurt many people in the process.” He reached a hand up, cupping Derek’s jaw before he leaned in to place a kiss to the corner of Derek’s lips.

Derek reached his arm around Stiles, pulling him in close. His hand touched the bared skin spanning the small of Stiles’ back, warm skin whose softness was evident even against his calloused hand. He held Stiles flush against him, knowing the image it made for all the others.

Stiles couldn’t stop thinking about his grandmother’s words— _ you’re a great actor … make him believe it _ .

No one had seen the way Stiles shied away from all contact once behind closed doors. No one suspected that they were not the loving couple they were expected to be, both being painted as completely infatuated with one another since the wedding day.

“Gerard will show his hand sooner than you think,” Stiles quietly whispered. “Let the man make his grave, and I will happily help you bury him in it.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Derek answered him.

Stiles took Derek’s hand again, pulling his husband alongside him.

The festivities carried on without another hitch.

Stiles kept away from Gerard, knowing the man was planning something dastardly. He remained at Derek’s side, accepting the gifts and small tokens from the various people. He would kneel down beside the children when they approached him, offering a smile in return for their present.

The entertainment for that evening was to be a production that had never been seen before—something to commemorate the defeat of King Viseryn.

Derek and Stiles were still placed in their seats of honor at the head table when the announcer for the actor’s guild announced their play’s intent. They had been content in sitting together throughout the meal, both conversing here and there as all eyes wandered over to them.

Derek had looked at Stiles after the announcer finished, waiting to show his favor in allowing the play to start. He wasn’t about to let such a subject be touched without Stiles’ approval.

Stiles looked at Derek, forcing a small smile and faint nod of his head. He altered his weight, moving to lean against Derek’s shoulder, an act to look as if he was trying to find a comfortable spot in Derek’s arms. In truth, he was looking for a place to hide while in plain sight.

Derek lifted his arm enough for Stiles to slip in beside him, allowing Stiles this small blessing. He used his other hand to gesture towards the actors to start their production.

Stiles reached his hand up to his shoulder, entwining his fingers with Derek’s before pulling Derek’s arm even tighter around his shoulders.

Derek looked at the stage and noticed that the cheers of the audience were meant for the actor portraying Stiles. He shifted his body closer to Stiles, pulling him into his chest more. He took his goblet from the servant offering it, taking a long sip from it when he realized the Mad King was being portrayed as well. He offered the goblet to Stiles.

Stiles gratefully took the goblet from Derek’s hand, taking a long drink from it. He closed his eyes when he heard the actor portraying the Mad King speak.

The actor’s voice was nothing like Viseryn’s, but he spoke similar enough to him that it brought forth terrible memories.

Stiles relented when Derek took the goblet back, easing it out of his grip. He pretended to be pleased with Derek’s action.

The goblet had been refilled again, though Derek kept it from Stiles’ reach. Part of Stiles hated that, but he understood why—he couldn’t be drunk, not if he was going to keep his wits.

Derek cleared his throat after another sip from the goblet.

Stiles looked at Derek when he felt Derek lean away to cough some.

Derek looked back at Stiles when his cough cleared his throat. “I’m fine,” he softly spoke, turning his attention back to the stage.

Stiles looked back at the stage, watching as an actor playing his father came onto the stage. He almost wanted to laugh how expressive the actor’s gestures were. He startled when ‘Viseryn’ grabbed his counterpart on stage. He thought he had imagined it when the warmth of Derek’s body left him, barely jostled by the movement. He looked up at Derek.

“Enough,” Derek roughly demanded in a loud voice, causing the entire production to halt and everyone’s eyes to look to their King. “Enough,” he stated in a calmer voice. His hands were clenched into fists, an obvious displeasure at what was just being displayed.

Stiles could see an ashen paleness in Derek’s features.

“Your Majesty—”

Derek held up his hand to silence the actor that spoke. “I’m not angry with your production,” he explained. “This is something I never wish to relive,” he admitted. “I couldn’t protect him then, and this is a reminder of that failing.”

Stiles quickly stood, moving to hold Derek’s hand. He realized that Derek was giving him the out he so desperately wanted. He gently lifted Derek’s hand to place a kiss across his knuckles.

Derek wrapped his arm around Stiles’ waist, pulling him in close.

It was a convincing display.

A King upset about his failings, and a Consort to soothe such pains.

~*~

Stiles was happy to leave the festivities with the sun’s departure. He followed alongside Derek, knowing that their tiniest of actions were constantly under scrutiny.

Derek kept beside Stiles for the night, happy to be escorting him back to his rooms. There was an uneasiness rising in his chest from the moment Gerard had spoken to both of them.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Stiles finally uttered as he strolled alongside Derek.

The halls of the Keep were deserted save for the stationed guards. The flaming torches bolted to the walls illuminated the hallway, chasing off the night’s darkness.

The more light, the more comforting.

“I know,” Derek answered as he kept pace with Stiles.

Stiles slowed as they approached his room. He knew Derek’s rooms were in the other direction, a question as to why Derek would bother making the trip circled his thoughts. “I suppose this is where I wish you a good night,” he softly stated, both of them halting away from the guards.

Derek didn’t speak as he turned to look at Stiles. He pulled Stiles closer, catching the faint startle in Stiles’ actions to pull back. He used his strength to hold Stiles close enough, pressing their bodies together as he moved to bury his face in the crook of Stiles’ neck. He turned his head enough to keep an eye over Stiles’ shoulder—his gaze staring at the shadowed corners of the hallway where he’d seen a figure hide. “Someone is following us,” he softly spoke against the shell of Stiles’ ear.

Stiles’ attempts to pull away from Derek calmed, ceasing completely when he realized Derek’s motive. He reached a hand up, burying his fingers in the locks of Derek’s hair, all in an attempt to mask their conversation as a passionate embrace.

“Invite me to your bed,” Derek nearly whispered, his own instincts screaming at him to remove them from such an opened area. He still didn’t trust the men stationed outside Stiles’ room, knowing that the shadowy figure somehow traversed the Keep’s layout to reach the inner residence without getting caught.

Stiles was languid in his movements, slipping his hand into Derek’s as he pulled the older man along. “Will you share my bed tonight, my lord?” He softly asked, though making sure his words were loud enough to be heard by others listening. He bid Derek follow him with a pull of his arm.

“I’d be mad to refuse such an offer,” Derek replied as he moved with Stiles.

Stiles moved passed the guards with the appearance of a lover determined to satisfy the night’s needs for a companion. He started unfastening his vest, publicly displaying his intent to disrobe.

Derek turned an eye on the guards as he slipped into the room after Stiles. He gave the men a stern look when he caught one of their gazes lingering on Stiles. “Stay alert,” he simply ordered the men. He paused his move to depart from them, looking after Stiles.

Stiles was leaning against the bedpost, his vest discarded and shirt loosened. His hair was tousled from the way he played with it. His skin was lit up by the firelight’s glow. He had his knee bent as he worked his fingers at the laces of his boots, a laziness in his movements suggested that he was not bound by any time constraint.

If Derek was a different man, he would have believed Stiles was waiting for him. He would have to be a foolish man, though, to think Stiles yearned for him in such a manner. He truly cursed the Mad King for twisting Stiles into the actor the young man had become through survival instincts alone.

“Don’t disturb us,” Derek sharply commanded the guards before shutting the door in their faces. He turned to look at Stiles, catching the young man’s sudden reversal.

Stiles was sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands forgetting his boots as he wrung them in worry with his thoughts racing. “Who could it be?” He almost whispered, finally looking up at Derek.

Stiles suddenly looked his true age.

Derek took the steps closer to Stiles, moving to sit beside him on the bed. “I don’t know,” he honestly answered. “It could be anyone.”

Stiles worried his lip between his teeth as he looked at the door. It was a nervous habit he had yet to outgrow, having nibbled his lip to the point of bleeding before. He stopped when Derek’s hand held onto his own.

“The only way is to slip through that door,” Derek explained as he gestured towards the main door. “These rooms were never intended for a Consort,” he added. “There are no other entrances.”

“Or escapes,” Stiles corrected Derek. “I’d like that to be fixed in the future.”

“Something I will have looked into,” Derek comfortingly answered.

Hours passed with nothing happening.

Derek wondered if he had been overreacting—if he had made up the threat. He felt foolish, but didn’t regret it. He wanted the guarantee that Stiles was safe.

“You never said you remembered that,” Derek suddenly stated as he looked at Stiles.

Stiles looked perplexed by Derek’s words. “Remembered what?”

Derek released a faint sigh, shaking his head. He had been fixated on it since he heard Stiles telling the children the story. “The well,” he offered.

“Oh,” Stiles softly spoke. “I forgot a lot,” he answered. “I think it made it easier to be kept here. If I couldn’t remember what I was missing, I wouldn’t miss it.”

Derek’s features sunk as he nodded his head. “Makes the most sense.”

Stiles looked at Derek. “Did you know?”

Derek looked back at Stiles, keeping his gaze.

“That I liked you,” Stiles simply uttered.

It was Derek’s turn to be confused by Stiles’ question.

“I know I was only six, but I think it was pretty obvious,” Stiles admitted.

A smile pulled at Derek’s lips. “I was thrilled someone wasn’t yelling at me,” he replied. “Everyone seemed to forget I was only twelve,” he stated. His smile slipped some as he looked at Stiles.

Stiles looked away from Derek when he felt the tears burning his eyes. “People tend to do that,” he echoed.

“You reminded me of home,” Derek softly confessed.

Stiles blinked his eyes until the tears were almost gone before looking back at Derek.

“There are these flowers that grow in the godswood, at the heart of Winterfell,” Derek explained as he relaxed against the bedframe. “They’re a deep red, and they bloom right through the cold before winter’s first snowfall.” He remembered picking some of the flowers for his mother in those early years. “It made me less homesick …  _ you  _ made me less homesick. And I never thanked you for that.”

Stiles was silent for a beat. “The songs will say you raised an army and rebelled against the Mad King for me.” He looked at Derek. “I’m happy you pulled me out of the well. For a long time … when the Mad King would look at me … I wished I had died down there.” He drew in a soft breath. “I don’t want to die now,” he whispered.

Derek quietly shifted his body, lifting his arm up to reach out to Stiles. He was surprised when Stiles welcomed his offer and rested his head against his chest.

Stiles remembered falling asleep, the sound of Derek breathing lulling his racing thoughts into a gentle peace.

~*~

The Mad King’s temper soured as time went on, digging wounds deep into the realm as he split loyalties through fear of burning. He found pleasure in the company of the Stag of High Garden—the Gilded Rose of the Marshes, whose thorns he wished to cut away for just a glimpse of the bud beneath the petals.

The Mad King’s eyes never left Stiles whilst in the throne room, his gaze fascinated by the moles he could see adorning Stiles’ bared shoulders. He had wished Stiles would have listened to him, taking into account his dislike for how the modest clothes of King’s Landing drowned out Stiles’ natural beauty. He wished to see more of High Garden’s fashion—the warmth of the South allowing for less cloth. He wanted to see more of Stiles’ skin, the small exposed spots of pristine paleness accented by the moles only tempted him more. There were times when he would allow his touches to linger on Stiles, his gestures moving too far in order to caress his fingers across Stiles’ smooth skin beneath the clothing. He wanted to know what that skin felt like beneath his hands, fantasies of having it bared and naked among his bedsheets.

He liked it when Stiles danced for him. He found that a warmth would spread through his gut as he watched Stiles move with the music, the young boy’s steps taking him across the opened space in the throne room. He would keep his rage hidden when he found stray eyes watching Stiles, making a note to have the person’s eyes burned out for staring too long.

He had grown more impatient with every letter that Lydia denied his requests to have Stiles. The Duchess of the Marshes, Stiles’ beloved cousin, would not give Stiles’ hand to just anyone—even a King. And the rumors spreading in Court, concerning the Wolves in the North coming for him, only served to motivate the King more in his attempts to make Stiles his own. 

Stiles was still a boy when he woke to the King being in his rooms the first time. He startled, thinking there was something wrong—that the houses were in actual rebellion against the throne.

“Your Majesty,” Stiles softly addressed the King, watching as the man moved to stand from his chair. His gaze looked to the chair, never noticing its presence in his rooms before, leaving him to guess that the King had it brought in.

“I worry about you,” the King answered as he moved to sit on the edge of Stiles’ bed, not caring for any boundaries he was crossing. “With your mother dead and father gone, you have no one to look out for you.”

Stiles felt uneasy, not knowing where the King’s words were leading them.

“Your father no doubt sees your mother in you,” the King commented, looking at Stiles. “You look a great deal like her— her beauty still visible even years after her death.”

Stiles tried to turn his face away from the King’s forward gesture to touch his cheek. Dread sunk deep in his gut when the King’s fingers still caressed his chin, daring to lean forward and try to get more. He hated the feeling of the King’s hand dragging down his leg before the pressure of a light grip encircled his ankle through the sheets.

“I know how lonely it can be without your spouse to warm your bed,” the King continued to explain, referring to the late Queen. “The warmth of another’s skin is … indescribable.” His thumb rubbed gentle circles into Stiles’ ankle, fascinated by how quaint the appendage felt in his hand.

Stiles tried to pull his leg away from the King, terrified at how intimate the conversation was. He startled when the King tightened his grip on his ankle, snatching it back into the King’s hold.

“Don’t,” the King hoarsely commanded. “Don’t ever pull away from me again.” He looked up at Stiles, seeing the tears in the boy’s eyes. “I’m here to protect you, Stiles.  _ Never  _ pull away from me again—I can’t protect you if you pull away.” He reached his other hand out to finally touch Stiles’ cheek. He released a soft laugh to himself, giddy that he was finally able to have at least this. “You’re the most precious thing in all of King’s Landing. I promised your father and cousin that I would keep you close, out of harm’s way.” He moved to stand, turning his attentions to the ornately decorated armoire he knew housed Stiles’ many outfits. “Now, we’ll have to dress you for the day.” 

Stiles was scared. “But, Your Majesty,” he dared to utter. “It’s improper. If people knew you were here—”

“Your cousin is being a little hard to negotiate with,” the King answered Stiles’ concerns with contempt. “But given time, I’m sure she’ll agree you are safest with me.”

Stiles pulled the blankets up against his chest, trying to keep layers between himself and the King. Panic started to rise when he saw the King pulling out an outfit for him to wear before ultimately turning his gaze to him. He could read the King’s expression, and knew he was expected to disrobe before him.

That was when Stiles’ first lie came to him. “If people knew about us, they would try and hurt me.”

The King seemed taken aback by that, as if he was chastising himself for foolishly overlooking such an obvious threat.

“I should have guards,” Stiles pressed. “That will come to my aid should I yell for them.”

“Yes,” the King quickly uttered, appearing to be visibly shaken by the thought of Stiles being in harm’s way. “Yes, of course.”

Stiles wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to do, knowing that giving a madman something to rant about helped no one. But he couldn’t ignore the relief he felt when the King left his room a moment later to immediately see to the changes.

Stiles wasn’t ignorant. He knew the King was mad with more than just lust for him. He was something the King was told he couldn’t have—and that wouldn’t do, not for the Mad King.

That was when the prostitutes started to frequent the royal halls at night. They would be escorted to the King’s rooms, where they waited to abide to the King’s every pleasure. Stiles, however, saw some of the prostitutes that were escorted away from the King’s chambers, and the state that they were left in.

The King’s gold bought the prostitutes’ compliance in keeping silent about their battered and bruised skin. Their mistreatment was never important to the pimps, for more were always sent at the King’s beckoning. They all resembled Stiles a great deal, some even mirroring him in age. It scared Stiles to imagine what happened to the ones that were never seen leaving the King’s chambers. He knew that the King wanted to do those things to him.

Stiles tried to pretend it didn’t bother him. He hid behind a calm, caring mask that allowed him to slip by the King’s anger. He was able to calm the King’s rage, making the man happy with his visage alone. He couldn’t save everyone, his good will being spread thin as the rebellion waged on throughout the realm, his father’s involvement in the war angering the King more than usual.

The older Stiles became, the bolder the King grew. Until one day, the King asked Stiles to join him in prayer.

Stiles took his time entering the Sept of Baelor, taking in the gravitas of the tower. He knew that one day he would be taking vows of marriage beneath these arching buttresses, the architecture illuminated through the tinted orange light streaming through the stained glass windows. He was surprised to pass by only a handful of Kingsguard, finding the King alone in the tower. With the rebellion marching closer to King’s Landing, the King saw more traitors close by.

The Mad King stood by the altar, his clothes ornately draped over his shoulders as he knelt before the candles. He picked at the scabs on his hands, digging his nails down into his skin. He was agitated, knowing that the rebels would be banging on the gates of King’s Landing the next morning. But he had to know the truth.

“You called for me, Your Majesty,” Stiles started in greeting to the King.

The tower was chilly, despite the candles burning through the night, and the afternoon light pouring through the windows. Stiles was glad that he wore his heavier clothing, happy to be covered up from the King’s gaze. Still, his vest left his neck and part of his chest showing, the only part of his body being displayed. He knew his clothing pleased the King when the man’s gaze lingered on his exposed collarbone. 

“I haven’t prayed in years,” the King admitted, gesturing for Stiles to come closer.

Stiles took a calculated series of steps to bring himself closer to the King, but still out of reach.

“Do you pray?” The King asked. He scoffed at his own question. “Of course you pray, what a foolish question. You’re too pure hearted not to.”

Stiles remained silent, used to the way the King would oftentimes answer his own questions. “The gods rarely listen to such small prayers,” he offered. “They are kind in their mercy, though.”

“Mercy,” the King mumbled. “Mercy is too lenient.” He looked at Stiles again, his gaze analyzing him. “My advisors think I’m too merciful with you. That I’m too giving.”

“It isn’t a bad thing to be giving,” Stiles replied.

“I gave your father my trust,” the King answered. “And where is he now, hm? On the battlefield, slaughtering my people.”

“My father thinks he is doing the right thing,” Stiles stated as he watched the King.

“The right thing would be for him to come before his King and beg for  _ mercy _ ,” the King angrily stated. “But instead he leaves you here, alone.”

“Am I alone, Your Majesty?” Stiles asked, knowing his loyalty was being tested.

“My bed is vacant of you,” the King suddenly stated. “That is a loneliness enough.”

Stiles’ brow furrowed.

“It makes me wonder why I haven’t had you yet,” the King plainly stated. “If you are the spy they say you are.”

“I’m not a spy,” Stiles answered, knowing that the words were easy to admit—the first truthful words he had spoken in years.

“You begged for the Hale girl,” the King replied, his nails digging at the itch in his hand once more.

Stiles frowned at that. “I don’t like violence,” he answered, looking up at the King. He wasn’t sure how to proceed when the King vacantly stared at him. “She had been my friend at Court since I was a child,” he offered. “It was sentiment that moved me to speak in her defense.”

“You believe your sentiment is a higher command than the King’s?” The Mad King inquired, his voice slightly wavering as his eyes scanned Stiles.

“I believe I am flawed for having sentiment, My Lord,” Stiles artfully replied. “I oftentimes believe that there is truth in the saying that families do not fight their warriors’ battles.” He allowed the King to stew in the silence for a moment before adding, “My cousin acts in such respects.”

The Mad King barked out a laugh. “The Duchess of the Marshes,” he mumbled to himself.

Stiles’ mouth began to dry, realizing that this wasn’t the first time he had lost control of the situation with the King. Topics were becoming too jumbled, the King hopping from one to another as Stiles scrambled to keep up.

“Your cousin won’t let me have you the proper way,” the King uttered. “I’ve asked and asked, but every letter she replies without her blessing. It makes me question when I’ll finally be able to take you under my protection. Or if she’ll keep you from me—if you’ve been playing me, both of you—together. All to keep you just out of my reach,” he spat in sudden anger, the idea of never being able to claim Stiles driving his jealousy.

“No man or woman has touched me,” Stiles calmly stated. “You have seen to that mercy, Your Majesty.”

The King rose from his spot, taking a few steps towards Stiles. He touched his fingertips to Stiles’ skin, pressing his rough and worn hands to the smooth curve of Stiles’ cheek. “I can’t even touch you without the scrutiny of others.”

Stiles stilled his desire to pull away, bile rising in his throat the longer the King allowed his touch to linger.

“I don’t even know if you’re truly pure,” the Mad King muttered to himself. “You could be a disappointment.” He shook his head, letting his hand fall from Stiles’ skin as he started to scratch his sores again. “I don’t even know what form you truly have beneath those garbs.”

“It wouldn’t be proper,” Stiles softly stated, hoping it would continue to buy him time. “The gods don’t approve of carnal touch before the vows of marriage are taken.”

“Yes, yes they do disapprove of that,” the Mad King nodded in agreement. “That’s why I’ll only look.”

Stiles took a step back as the King stared at him, fear souring in his stomach. His back collided with an armored body, the only indicator that they weren’t alone within the tower. He released a breathy gasp when a gauntlet-covered hand roughly grabbed his arm. “Your Majesty, please!” He begged when another pair of hands seized him.

~*~

Stiles startled from the memories plaguing his dreams. He felt sick as he recalled the Mad King’s eyes. He pressed a hand to his forehead, wiping away the sweat as he fixed his hair some. He looked around the room, realizing that he was in bed now, the blankets covering him.

Derek must have left at first light, moving Stiles to the bed for a better sleep.

Stiles wasn’t sure, but he thought he recalled the feeling of being gently lifted and moved.

There appeared to be no imminent threat as the maid courteously knocked on the door to announce herself. Stiles could see the disappointment on her face when she surveyed the room to no avail for a sign of the King—for something to gossip about. He wondered where Derek had gone as he continued about his morning routine.

“Stiles!”

Stiles was in the middle of changing into a fresh set of robes when he turned to see his father rushing into the room. “What’s wrong?” He asked, his brow creasing some.

“I need you to come with me,” John quickly instructed, taking Stiles by the arm to lead him into the hallway.

“Father, what’s wrong,” Stiles asked, startled by how quickly John was leading him by the arm.

John’s expression was grim, his brow creased with worry. “Derek collapsed,” he finally stated.

Stiles stopped walking, his feet planted firmly as he pulled himself out of his father’s hold.

John turned to look at Stiles. Something in John’s features changed—softened, even—as he looked at Stiles. He was seeing his son in a sudden new light. He could see Stiles’ vulnerability for the first time as he watched worry crack the perfected mask Stiles wore too often.

Stiles wrang the fabric of his robes as he took a few steps back from his father. His mind was racing— “He’s not …” He drew in an unsteady breath, feeling as if an unknown liquid was drowning his lungs. “Is he alive?”

“Yes,” John stated as he moved to hold Stiles by the arms. “But they aren’t sure for how long.”

Stiles stared at his father in disbelief. “You make it sound as if they are not hopeful for a recovery.”

“They aren’t,” John grimly concluded.

“He was … he was fine last night, though.”

“They know he was with you—guards sighted him with you last night,” John elaborated.

“He stayed with me,” Stiles replied, a dizziness clouding his mind. “Someone was following us, he said.”

John’s expression fell. “The guards saw no one.”

“That was why Derek wanted to stay with me,” Stiles explained.

John took Stiles by the arm again, leading him down the hallway once more.

“Where are we going?” Stiles asked, realizing that they weren’t headed to Derek’s rooms.

“I’m doing what I should have done over a decade ago,” John sternly answered. “I’m taking you to Storm’s End.”

Stiles silently stared at his father’s face as he tried to keep up with John’s strides.

“They can lay siege to it all they want, but they won’t take it,” John continued to explain.

“Why?” Stiles weakly asked, his voice hesitant to know the truth. He didn’t want to know what his father thought of him to warrant such a flight.

“The maesters think Derek won’t survive a fortnight,” John explained. “And then this all crumbles. The Argents will make their move to seize King’s Landing in the aftermath.” He hesitated to admit that Stiles was also in direct danger, but his unspoken  _ ‘and you’ _ hung in the air all the same.

“If I leave now, they will think I poisoned him,” Stiles countered.

“They already do,” John corrected Stiles.

Stiles pulled out of John’s grip once more. “My place is here—”

John turned to face Stiles. “Stiles, now is not the time—”

“I’m not leaving him,” Stiles sharply stated, a glare taking over his features when he realized his father was going to keep trying. “He is my husband—or have you forgotten that fact?”

John drew in a heavy breath. “Stiles, this is more than what we imagined would happen. I  _ never _ imagined that Derek would be poisoned.”

“All the more reason for me not to leave,” Stiles replied. He shook his head. “I’ll stay and take care of him. It’s the only thing I can do.”

John firmly grabbed Stiles’ shoulders. “I left you here once—something I’ve always regretted. I’m  _ not _ going to leave you here now.”

Stiles looked up at John, a soft frown pulling at his features. “I want to stay,” he gently admitted.

“Stiles—”

“I didn’t poison him,” Stiles quickly stated, staring at his father. “Do you believe me?”

John started to shake his head. “It doesn’t matter what I believe—”

“Do you believe me?” Stiles asked in a louder tone. He refused to hear the pleading in his voice.

“I don’t know what I believe anymore, Stiles,” John stated in a weary tone.

Stiles pulled away from his father, anger and betrayal coiling deep in his stomach.

“But I  _ know _ you didn’t poison him,” John added as he pulled Stiles back. He held Stiles’ face in the palms of his hands, forcing his son to look at him. “I  _ know _ .”

Stiles closed his eyes, pushing in to hug John tightly.

“I’m sorry I ever made you feel as if I didn’t believe you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Attempted rape scene: during a revolt in the slums, knights attempt to rape Stiles, before arguably killing him; they are suggested to have been swayed by someone (Argents) to attack Stiles and "degrade him". Derek ultimately finds and saves Stiles, before Stiles dishes out his own justice.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting a few days early because I will be busy over the weekend and have terrible experience with timed/queued chapters on here.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Derek didn’t look like the Wolf King from the North.

His skin was sickly pale, several shades lighter than its normally tan tone. His body suffered tremors, a cold sweat covering him. He looked weak, like a man on death’s door.

It unsettled something in John’s stomach.

John was present at the meeting when Derek staggered some, though he had been foolish enough to believe Derek’s dismissal of any pains. He had his back turned to Derek when he heard the young man collapse.

John had seen Derek after he fought Viseryn’s son—when the unknown young lord of the North defeated the Last Living Dragon in the streams of the river ford, Derek’s warhammer embedded into the crushed armor of what was the crowned Targaryen Prince.

John would never forget witnessing the way the battle stilled when the crowned prince fell. He had turned in time to see the rubies breaking free from the young dragon’s armor when Derek’s warhammer collided with the man’s chest.

They called it the Ruby Ford, now. John hadn’t missed the displeased look on Derek’s face when he had been informed of the name. For the young man's distaste, it was the sparking origin of his viability for the throne.

John had seen the wounds Derek suffered from that battle, and the way the boy barely stayed still after the healer finished stitching him up—determined to check on his men. He was next to Derek when they seized King’s Landing, despite Derek’s wounds still healing, and even then the young Hale lived up to his reputation.

But now, Derek was decaying from the inside, and there was nothing his strength could do to save him.

John silently watched Stiles care for Derek despite the protests of the council present.

Stiles sat along the edge of Derek’s bed, his hands wringing out the cold water from the cloth he used to dampen Derek’s burning skin. He was gentle in his actions, carefully dabbing the dampened cloth around Derek’s face.

“He shouldn’t be here,” Lord Baren protested as he turned to John.

“He is the King Consort,” John sharply stated. “Be careful with your next words.”

“The King needs rest,” Lord Baren pressed.

“And what do you call that?” John countered, gesturing towards Derek’s unconscious form. “Stiles is making him more comfortable.”

“Has he vomited?” Stiles loudly asked over the bickering of the men.

Maester Harris came forward, ignoring the advisors who were trying to press in closer. “He grew light headed before passing out, but he hasn’t vomited.”

Stiles turned to look at his father. “Tell grandmother we need provisions from High Garden.”

John looked from Stiles to Harris. “I’m guessing since he hasn’t vomited that it means something good?”

“It’s an effect of the poison,” Harris explained.

“It hasn’t burned his throat,” Stiles corrected Harris. “It’s settled in his stomach. Which means we might be able to save him.”

Harris looked insulted by Stiles’ words. “That’s impossible—”

“I didn’t ask your opinion,” Stiles sharply silenced him. “Whoever poisoned him didn’t know the correct dosage to give him, and gave too little.”

“You think they meant it for someone else?” John asked.

Stiles’ fingertips brushing Derek’s hair back from sticking to his forehead. “I think they didn’t calculate that Derek is bigger than the average man.” He looked at his father. “Tell grandmother we need the remedy for Sister’s Ache.”

Maester Harris looked appalled by Stiles’ diagnosis. “You think someone gave His Majesty a poison that mirrors the removal of unwanted babies?”

Stiles didn’t answer Harris as he turned to look at Boyd. “Please make sure my grandmother has everything she needs to make the remedy.”

Boyd dutifully bowed to Stiles, turning to take his leave. He hesitated before gesturing for Isaac to stay in the room.

Isaac stepped back into the room, turning to look at Stiles and Derek. He had momentarily forgotten Derek’s expressed instruction to never leave Stiles alone, even for a moment, while in the company of others. He wondered if Derek was right to be so worried when he saw how timid the others looked under Stiles’ judgmental eye.

John’s brow furrowed as he ran through what Stiles had said before about the dosage. If the dosage was too small for Derek, then it wasn’t meant for him.

It was meant for the person that shared the goblet with Derek.

“Stiles—”

“I know,” Stiles softly answered, refusing to look at his father. “We shared a goblet last night,” he stated as he continued to dab at Derek’s forehead.

John made sure that the others left Stiles alone. He instructed Boyd to stay with Stiles, to keep a watchful and protective eye on him. He left only to deal with the other matters of State, hoping he could keep the vultures away until Derek recovered.

And to make plans for Stiles’ escape should Derek not.

Olynna stayed with Stiles, helping him care for Derek.

“What do you think, little one?” Olynna asked as she finished mixing another dose for the remedy.

Stiles focused on Derek’s hand, his own hands fidgeting with memorizing the strength he knew Derek once possessed—strength he hoped to see once again. “I think I’m a curse,” he hollowly answered as he tightened his hold on Derek’s hand.

“Curses require a meddling force beyond our control,” Olynna replied as she mixed the remedy with the tea Stiles had brewed. “This is not that power.”

“Then what is it?” Stiles asked, his eyes focused on Derek’s features.

“Men,” Olynna stated as she offered a freshly poured cup to Stiles. “Men trying to seize control for themselves, with little concern who is hurt in the aftermath.”

Stiles looked from the cup to his grandmother.

Olynna could see, for the first time, the tears and exhaustion hidden in Stiles’ features. “My little flower,” she spoke with fondness, though sympathy laced her words.

Stiles turned from her, carefully pressing the lip of the cup to Derek’s lips. “It’s strange,” he softly uttered. “I had hated him, for accepting father’s offer.”

Olynna looked at Stiles. “And now you don’t.”

“He was trapped in this marriage as much as me,” Stiles replied, moving to place the empty cup on the bedside stand. “I saw him as a captor, without realizing that he was in the cage with me. But the other night—he stayed with me, to protect me. He could have left me, but he didn’t.”

Olynna reached a hand out, brushing her fingertips through Stiles’ hair.

Stiles looked at his grandmother with tears in his eyes. “I’ve never felt so alone.”

Olynna pulled Stiles into her arms, hushing the soft sobs that raked Stiles’ body as he clung to her.

~*~

Hours passed with no sign of improvement.

Stiles was vigilant in his care for Derek, having forgone sleep for the night in order to watch over him. He was terrified that something would happen to Derek in the night.

Stiles was gentle in his touch as he bathed Derek the following morning, using a cloth to wipe away the sweat and sickness. He allowed his grandmother to help him turn Derek onto his side. He paused when he saw the scars that covered Derek’s back.

Some of the scars were large, clearly running deep. There were a few others that looked as if they could be wiped away, though they were slightly pink in nature.

Stiles knew which one Derek received that day in Flea Bottom, when the riot broke out. He wished he could have spared Derek at least that one.

“See something you like?” Olynna softly asked Stiles.

Stiles looked at his grandmother for a moment before rubbing a soft towel against Derek’s back. He ushered Olynna to place Derek onto his back once he finished. “I’ve never seen scars like these upclose, is all.”

Olynna made a soft noise of understanding. “He’s a gorgeous man, even with them.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “He’s deathly ill, grandmother, and you can’t even contain your shamelessness.” He placed the wash cloth on the lip of the basin. He placed his hand on Derek’s cheek, trailing his thumb across Derek’s cheekbone.

“I’m shameless, but you’re the one gawking at him,” Olynna answered.

Stiles was silent as he examined Derek’s features. “Does he look any different?” He asked. “I’m so tired, I can barely tell anymore,” he softly uttered.

“You should sleep for a while,” Olynna answered. “I can watch over him for now.”

“No,” Stiles started. “I can’t leave—”

“Stiles,” Olynna sternly uttered his name. “I have this charming young knight to stand guard,” she started, gesturing towards Boyd. “I’m certain no one will be able to hurt Derek while we’re here.”

Stiles hesitated before looking to Boyd.

Boyd offered a small smile to Stiles. “I think Derek would want you to rest some, your Majesty.”

“See?” Olynna uttered.

Stiles looked back at Derek, hesitating to move.

“Oh, for the gods’ sakes,” Olynna cursed under her breath. “You can sleep in the parlor, if you can’t bear to be too far. Just sleep before you drive us all insane.”

Stiles slept on the lounging chair, his body curled up on the cushions as he tried to dream of nothing. His thoughts were swirling with the fear and terror that he may wake a widower.

Stiles’ dreams were blank, nothing coming to him in his sleep. He woke to the sound of voices speaking. His heart leapt when he realized the voices were coming from Derek’s room. He cursed himself for agreeing to sleep. He bolted upright, rushing to get into the room and know what happened.

Stiles’ steps faltered when he entered the room to see that the council members were not talking about Derek, but to him.

Derek was still in bed, his back propped up against the headboard and fluffed pillows. The blankets covering his legs were gathered in mounds around him, his bare chest exposed. He looked better, as if the poisoning was nothing to fear. Though, exhaustion covered his features still. His hair was a mess, completely disheveled from lack of active maintenance. His eyes were soft, tired but thankful. Though his eyebrows were turned down in a perpetual scowl as he listened to the others prattle on.

Derek’s attention immediately turned to Stiles. The faintest smile pulled at the corner of his lips, his eyebrows softening as his glare dissipated. He was unable to prevent displaying his happiness at seeing Stiles.

“Why did no one wake me?” Stiles demanded as he pushed past the council members. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, closest to Derek. He was certain he could still feel the indent he had made in the mattress from the previous days.

“I didn’t know you were out there,” Derek replied as he kept his eyes on Stiles.

Stiles released a breathy chuckle as he held Derek’s hand. “Of course she didn’t tell you.”

“Your grandmother said you needed sleep,” Derek finally explained. “I agreed with her,” he stated before Stiles could grow angry.

“How long have you been awake?” Stiles asked, wishing to know how long since Derek was out of danger.

“Only a little while,” Derek answered, his full attention on Stiles. He reached his hand up, fingers brushing through Stiles’ own disarrayed hair. He was surprised that Stiles allowed him such a gesture.

Stiles turned his cheek into Derek’s hand, closing his eyes as a heavy breath left him. He couldn’t deny his happiness at Derek’s simple gesture of intimacy.

Harris ruined the moment when he cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, we need to continue our discussion.”

“I told you that discussion was over,” Derek angrily answered Harris, his previous calm completely shattered.

“It is paramount that we continue it,” Lord Barren pressed.

Stiles turned to look at the other men. He knew the discussion centered around him, having guessed that the council snuck past him in order to get to Derek first.

“I said enough,” Derek’s voice was dangerously low, a hidden fury that had yet to be revealed.

Stiles looked at Derek when he spoke.

“How do you explain his knowledge of the poison?” Lord Barren asked. “He knew what Maester Harris did not.”

“Perhaps the Maester is not all knowing,” Derek sharply replied.

Stiles’ insides twisted. He wanted to laugh—his father was right to want to hide him from the council’s accusations. He’d never change their minds, it seemed.

“Stiles saved his life, so you want to place blame on him,” Peter stated, a faint huff of incredulous laughter in his own voice.

“He knew what Sister’s Ache was,” Lord Barren countered. He turned to look at John who had been silently watching Derek’s reaction to the whole thing. “John, you even said he may have poisons.”

Stiles turned his head to see his father standing in the corner, not realizing he had been in the room the whole time.

“I was afraid Stiles may have self inflicting poisons,” John sharply cut off whatever Lord Barren was about to accuse his son of. “I feared my son would take his own life over whatever hell you all had planned for him.”

Stiles was grateful for Derek’s hands holding his own. He wasn’t sure what would happen if he didn’t have an anchor holding him to the room.

“If he has to be kept in line—”

“I want you out of my sight,” Derek loudly demanded of Lord Barren, drawing all attention in the room. “You, and any other fool who thinks my husband poisoned me.”

A silence cut through the awkwardness in the room.

“Now!” Derek snapped.

Stiles looked at Derek.

“All of you get out,” Derek finally barked at them, annoyed that the men were lingering.

Stiles watched as the men sheepishly followed Lord Barren out of the rooms. He noticed the laughter in Peter’s smile when he left. He looked to his father before also moving to leave Derek.

“Not you,” Derek softly admitted to Stiles, pulling on Stiles’ hand to prevent him from standing.

Stiles relaxed back into his spot.

“Let me know how you wish to proceed once all is settled,” John finally stated, respectfully nodding his head to Derek before leaving.

“What does he mean?” Stiles asked once the door shut behind his father.

Derek shook his head. “If I want a new council,” he admitted. He relaxed into the pillows behind him, closing his eyes as he released a heavy breath. “The second I woke up, your grandmother wouldn’t tell me where you were, just that you were alive.”

Stiles loved his grandmother, but he also hated her decisions at times.

“If she had told me you were just in the next room, I wouldn’t have summoned your father,” Derek elaborated.

“Ah,” Stiles uttered in understanding. “You summoned my father, and the vultures came rushing after.”

“Unfortunately,” Derek answered. He looked at Stiles, frowning slightly when he saw the uneasiness in Stiles’ features. “Something is bothering you. I’ve learned that much from our time together.”

Stiles sadly looked at Derek. “They know,” he weakly confessed, pulling his hand away from Derek’s.

“They know what?” Derek asked, watching as Stiles pulled his hand away.

“When you collapsed, my father came to get me,” Stiles explained, looking down at his hands. “The council asked if there was any hope to be had— if there was any chance I was with child.”

Derek’s features softened with understanding.

“Within a fortnight, the Argents will know that our marriage was never consummated,” Stiles continued, swallowing down the lump in his throat. “And then it will only be a matter of when, not if, they’ll attack us.” He released a sad laugh. “They’ll ask for a bedding ceremony, most likely try and mock you.”

“Asking for one doesn’t mean they’ll get one,” Derek answered.

Stiles shook his head. “There is little either of us can do—”

“Stiles,” Derek sternly uttered his name. “There won’t be one.”

Stiles tried to hold back his tears as he turned his back to Derek. He pressed a shaky hand to his mouth, closing his eyes as he thought of what could possibly make Derek understand. “They know I am not with child—more importantly, your child. Which means that they have an opportunity to grab me and—”

“Stop,” Derek’s voice firmly demanded as a gentle hand touched Stiles’ shoulder. Nothing about Derek’s tone, however, sounded as if it was a command—more a request that Stiles spare him such a pained revelation.

Derek sat up further in the bed, his hand never leaving Stiles’ shoulder. “I do not plan on dying, Stiles,” he calmly begun. “You saved my life with your knowledge of poisons. They will not try this failed attempt again—especially considering that I don't believe I was the intended target.”

Stiles silently kept his gaze from Derek, trying to keep his own fears disguised.

Derek reached his hand out to touch Stiles’ chin, gently turning Stiles’ head to face him. He caringly brushed his finger along Stiles’ jaw in what he hoped was a welcomed gesture. “We’re both targets. Always will be because of the throne.”

“I wish we could get away—at least for a little bit,” Stiles confessed.

Derek released a soft sigh as he nodded. “I find myself agreeing.”

“I’m sorry I blamed you,” Stiles finally stated, looking up at Derek. “I blamed you for decisions made without your consent. It was … it was easier to hate you.”

Derek drew in a steady breath, finally nodding in agreement. “I’m a pretty easy person to hate.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Stiles started. He paused when Derek arched an eyebrow at him. “I didn’t know you, and it was safer to hate you than to … ” He shook his head. “To be vulnerable to another person.”

Derek took Stiles’ hand in his own. “I know,” he echoed Stiles’ feelings. “I’ve been there.”

“I wish,” Stiles began, his voice soft and unsure. “I wish we had a chance to know one another without this chaos.”

Derek’s brow furrowed some. “Perhaps we could take a moment for ourselves.”

~*~

Stiles stared at the caravan, watching as the many guards and servants worked to secure the provisions for their journey to the North.

“Your Grace,” a handservant’s voice called out to Stiles in an attempt to gain his attention.

Stiles pulled his attention away from the caravan to look at the young woman. “Yes?”

“His Majesty has asked for you,” the young woman explained with a courteous bow.

Stiles turned his attentions back towards the main courtyard that lead back into the Keep. “Thank you,” he faintly nodded to her as he moved to find Derek.

“You’re realizing this is insane, right?” Peter calmly questioned Derek as he looked around them. “There is no way you know this will work.”

“It will take the people’s minds off of what happened,” Derek answered as he signed what was left of the royal orders.

“I’m not questioning your motive,” Peter explained as he took the papers from Derek. “But your mother wasn’t exactly thrilled with the idea of you marrying in the Capital to begin with.”

“My mother will get over that,” Derek replied. “Stiles only got to have his father present,” he added as an afterthought.

Peter sighed as he placed the documents into the ledger, handing them off to one of the servants. “I worry about you,” he finally admitted. “You were almost killed, by a poison not meant for you I might add, and now you’re leaving your early rule in the hands of others.”

“All the more reason for me to have a break from King’s Landing,” Derek replied. He faintly smiled when he saw Stiles approaching them, moving to stand from the chair they had forced him to sit in earlier. His full strength had yet to return to him, leaving him unsteady on his feet despite his quick recovery.

Stiles stretched his arms out to Derek when he reached him, easily moving to duck beneath Derek’s arm, acting as a temporary aid in helping him stand. He wrapped his arm around Derek’s waist, pushing into his warmth as he turned to look at Peter.

“You make an image,” Peter commented in a teasing manner.

“Watch your tone,” Derek warned Peter.

Peter waved an unconcerned hand at Derek and Stiles. “You’ll have to bundle up once in the North,” he explained to Stiles, lifting one of the furs from the carriage that was being loaded into the caravan. “Either bundle up, or find a fun way to heat up.”

Derek grabbed and tossed one of the furs at Peter.

Stiles softly laughed at the noise Peter made when the fur hit the ground.

“Barbarian,” Peter muttered at Derek as he picked the fur out of the dirt.

Stiles looked at Derek when Peter started overseeing the packing. “You asked for me?”

Derek sighed, looking at Stiles. “I didn’t want to be alone with him,” he commented. “He wouldn’t shut up about his opinion.”

“His opinion being?” Stiles asked.

“That this is a bad idea,” Derek replied.

“You were injured,” Stiles started.

“Poisoned,” Derek corrected.

“I think that sounds worse,” Stiles remarked. “And you’re trusting others to deal with your kingdom,” he added as an afterthought. “You’re visiting family though, and that’s important.”

Derek released a heavy breath. He turned into Stiles’ embrace, cupping the back of Stiles’ head as he pressed a kiss to Stiles’ temple.

Stiles closed his eyes, welcoming Derek’s touch. He had been so fearful he would never have this again. His stomach twisted in knots as he refused to admit his feelings of affection were growing for Derek. He hated that Lydia and his grandmother were right—it would be easy to find himself wanting Derek’s companionship. And he didn’t know if he deserved it.

~*~

“You’ve been quiet nearly the entire ride,” Derek commented, his gaze focused on Stiles.

Stiles turned away from the carriage’s window, looking at Derek. “Would you like me to recite poetry for you?”

Derek partially snorted at the suggestion.

Stiles was silent for a beat, looking back at the carriage’s window. He watched the scenery go by, feeling the cold chill more now then when they were further South. “I fear your family will hate me,” he finally confessed.

Derek stared at Stiles. “How so?” He asked.

Stiles couldn’t stop the deprecated huff of laughter that left him. “I’m the reason their daughter is dead.”

“Stiles,” Derek started.

“If I had just ignored her when she first spoke to me, she’d be alive,” Stiles pressed.

“You were 12 when you first met her,” Derek countered. “How can you fault a 13 year old for wanting friendship.”

“Others find no problem in faulting me for my young naivety,” Stiles countered.

“My family will not fault you for something that you had no control over,” Derek replied.

Stiles remained quiet, knowing it did nothing to argue with Derek’s logic. “You haven’t told me much about your siblings,” he decided to steer the conversation away from the past. “You’re the eldest now,” he softly added.

“Cora is your age,” Derek answered, seeing Stiles’ change of subject for the reprieve it was. He decided to grant Stiles that small mercy. “She’s a brat.”

Stiles softly chuckled, “Did she steal your favorite toy while growing up?”

“She gets away with just about everything,” Derek answered. He didn’t dare tell Stiles why—that his parents saw too much of Laura in her and couldn’t bear to reprimand her for a damned thing.

“I know you have a new sibling,” Stiles broached the subject again, noticing how Derek paused in giving any information about Cora.

“Nicholas,” Derek answered, a small happiness in his voice as he thought about meeting his new brother. “I’ve never met him—I didn’t even know my mother was pregnant before they sent a raven with the news of his birth.”

Stiles nodded. “And the others?”

“Emma and Emmett are twins,” Derek explained. “They’re six, turning seven.” He thought about the last time he saw their mirroring smiles. “I haven’t seen them since they were four,” he added with a somber note in his voice.

“I’m sure they will be eager to see you,” Stiles answered.

Derek looked out the carriage’s window, his eyes on the horizon. “I can only hope.”

Stiles reached a hand out to touch Derek’s. “I’m sure they miss you.”

Derek softly turned his head to look at Stiles’ hand holding his own. He folded his fingers with Stiles’ in order to hold his hand better.

It was a sure weight that brought Derek a comfort he didn’t know he so desperately needed.

Derek had been the eldest son of the Warden of the North when he last left home. Now, he returned to his ancestral home a King.

It was enough to unsettle any man.

~*~

Stiles knew something was wrong when Derek tensed at the mention of their approach towards the Ruby Ford. He was watching Derek carefully, knowing that he was bothered by something as they exited the carriage.

Derek moved towards the riverbank, his steps slow and hesitant. His gaze was focused on the moving river as the guards looked to the caravan’s supplies and a safe way to cross.

“Would you prefer a horse over the carriage?” Stiles finally asked Derek, taking note of the perpetual frown on Derek’s lips.

Derek turned to look at Stiles. “Would you let me if I said yes?”

“No,” Stiles simply replied. He couldn’t help his small smile when Derek lightly chuckled. “But I would at least know what bugs you.”

Derek looked away from Stiles, his eyes drawn towards the steady streams of the ford. “I don’t like it here,” he finally answered.

Stiles tried to look at where Derek’s eyes were scouring.

“The last time I was here … ” Derek’s voice faded as his words cut off.

Derek would never forget that day. He had been riding for hours, heading south to meet with John’s reinforcements from Storm’s End. He had never imagined that his men would stumble over the young Targaryen counter force. He never imagined that he would face Viseryn’s one and only heir that day.

“You defeated Veryn,” Stiles finally stated, looking at Derek.

Derek was surprised by Stiles’ voice uttering what he couldn’t. “I killed a boy,” he countered as he took a few steps closer to the ford. He could still tell where he had been when he ran into Veryn. His horse had lost her shoe, causing him to fall into the water upon her stumbling. In the chaos of the battle, he turned to find Veryn standing directly before him.

Stiles took the necessary steps to stand by Derek. He placed his hand on Derek’s shoulders, his touch gentle as he tried to turn him away from the ford. “He was a bastard,” he commented with little emotion.

Derek didn’t turn from the ford. “He thought he could end the rebellion with one swing.” He shook his head.

Stiles frowned. “He was a cruel boy,” he softly confessed. “He was worse than his father.”

Derek didn’t answer Stiles.

Stiles looked at where Derek was staring, knowing that it must have been the spot he encountered Veryn.

Derek released a heavy breath. “I knocked him down, caved in his breastplate … probably shattered every rib he had,” he hollowly stated. “They never tell you what it feels like—watching another’s life pass. They don’t write that in the songs.”

Stiles slipped his hand into Derek’s, holding onto him tightly. “Come away,” he uttered, unsure of his own calm and sincerity. He frowned when Derek didn’t respond. “You killed an animal that day, not a man.”

“If he had been another’s son, he would have been grieved,” Derek replied.

“He was hated for other reasons,” Stiles countered, finally catching Derek’s attention. “ _ I  _ hated him for other reasons,” he added.

“What do you mean?” Derek finally asked.

“Your Majesties,” Boyd addressed both of them.

Derek reluctantly turned his head to look at Boyd when Stiles’ eyes avoided his own.

“We can make it across without disbanding any wagons,” Boyd explained.

Derek nodded in understanding. “In a moment.”

Stiles forced himself to turn, pulling on Derek’s arm in an attempt to go back to the carriage.

But Derek wouldn’t budge from his spot, anchoring Stiles to him as he held on.

“What did you mean?” Derek pressed.

“Not here,” Stiles breathlessly uttered. “Please, Derek, not here.”

Derek hesitated before accepting Stiles’ prompting. He helped assist Stiles into the carriage, his gaze once more wandering to look at the ford.

His guilt felt lighter, though a lead weight dropped deep in his stomach as his thoughts lingered on what Stiles’ words could mean.

~*~

“Where is your sister?” Talia asked Cora as her daughter walked by her to get in line with the others.

Cora offered a half-hearted shrug.

Emmett clung to Talia’s hand as he stared at the guards filing through Winterfell’s main gate. He wondered what the deer man looked like, Cora having filled his head with horrific stories of the Stag of High Garden. He yelled at Cora to stop it when she started rearing her head at him with her fingers splayed out like horns as she pretended to try and gut him with them. He had been afraid for Derek to travel with such a companion.

“I’m sure our darling little lady is around here somewhere,” Nathan commented as he walked over to join Talia. He still limped, despite the years of recuperating he had. The scars in his leg were deep, flesh marred through the muscle when he suffered the wound. He was still a young man when it happened. It had been one of the reasons Derek was the one to lead the rebellion, Nathan’s health having waned for a number of years prior as the wound’s infection continually resurfaced after only months of improving. He had wondered if it would have been wiser to just let the maesters take the leg.

Nathan offered his wife a smile when she tried to help him. “I have a cane for a reason, love,” he commented, lifting his cane up for Talia to see.

“I wish you would use it properly then,” Talia huffed as she looked around them.

“Perhaps tonight you can show me,” Nathan stated with a faint smirk when Talia smacked his shoulder.

Cora looked at Emmett when Talia busied her attention with looking around for Emma. She placed her hands on her head, making the horns again. She snickered when Emmett’s face bunched up in anger at her.

Emmett pulled on his mother’s hand when the carriage came to a stop. “Mama,” he faintly called, gaining her attention. He pointed at the carriage.

“That girl needs discipline,” Talia huffed as she thought of a way to reprimand Emma for disappearing.

The carriage doors opened.

Emmett was holding his breath as he watched the two people emerge from the carriage. The first person to exit, he knew to be his brother. He remembered Derek having a longer beard and wilder hair when he left, but he knew his brother looked like mama, and there was no denying that this man held that resemblance.

Next was the Stag of High Garden.

Emmett saw a hand with long fingers being held in Derek’s, an arm reaching out of the darkness of the carriage. He used his hold on Talia’s hand to balance himself as he stepped up onto his toes. He was too short to see over Derek’s shoulders and head when the Stag climbed out of the carriage.

A lovely cloak with generous amounts of fur covered most of the Stag, though Emmett remembered from Cora’s stories that Southerners were cold when traveling North. He supposed even deer grew cold when traveling North. He had heard that the Stag of High Garden dressed in silks, and wore gold decorations similar to mama’s special gems—jewelry she only wore on the most worthy of days. 

Mama didn’t wear those gems today, and Emmett wondered if she was afraid the Stag would want them for himself.

Then Emmett saw him.

The Stag wasn’t half deer. He wasn’t like anyone Emmett had ever seen before. His hair was cut short as was custom in the South because of the weather—something Derek seemed to have adopted. His hair was colored the same shade as the table in Winterfell’s great hall, a finer color than the deep black the Hales had. His skin was pale and decorated with pretty spots.

Emmett couldn’t stop staring at him.

It seemed none of the Hales could stop staring at Stiles.

Talia was surprised by Stiles’ appearance, half expecting the young lord to be dressed how so many of her fellow lords and ladies had warned her of. She had been to King’s Landing a handful of times before the rebellion, and she hadn’t cared for the way clothing seemed to slowly disappear with every passing season. She knew Stiles to be adored by the court for his adoption of such fashion, hearing how he had perfected the art of appealing desire. She wasn’t a fool, and knew when a rumor held no weight to it, though she felt proven the fool today for having given credence to such tales.

Stiles released his hold on Derek’s hand, keeping back as he allowed Derek the honor of greeting his family first. He looked at the Hales and others gathered, trying to take in the faces. He felt awkward, knowing that many of them had made up their minds about him already. But now he saw the judgment in their eyes, looks of contempt, even disgust. He had been at the Mad King’s side when so many of their people died—when their Lady Hale was burned alive for daring to speak with him. He looked away from them, catching sight of the youngest Hale present staring at him.

Stiles assumed the young boy must be Emmett, though he did not see a twin sister nearby. He offered the boy a kind smile, a soft wave of his hand.

Emmett’s eyes grew large at the recognition. He turned a bright shade of red as he looked down at the ground. He was smitten, to say the least.

“It’s good to see you,” Nathan stated as he embraced Derek. He smiled against his son’s shoulder, content to finally have him back home—even if it was only for a little while.

“I’m glad I could come,” Derek answered, releasing his hold on Nathan. He looked at his mother, offering her a small smile.

Talia hugged Derek tightly, her gaze looking over his shoulder to see Stiles. Her gaze sharply evaluated the boy, still disbelieving that he could be as harmless as he appeared. She had heard the stories, and she knew there was a reason the Mad King wanted him—she knew there was a reason Laura died because of him.

Stiles could feel Talia’s gaze on him, refusing to look up at her. He didn’t know what he could say to alter the situation. He wished he could tell Derek that he told him so—no one would believe that he wasn’t to blame for it all.

Derek pulled back from his mother, turning to reach an arm out to Stiles. He slightly flinched when Talia reached a hand out to touch his hair, halting his movements. He wished his mother had stopped trying to baby him.

“You’ve cut your hair,” Talia softly stated as her fingertips touched the shorter strands of Derek’s hair.

“Fighting was easier with it shorter,” Derek simply answered. “I got used to it for a while.”

Derek’s hair wasn’t as short as it had been when he arrived in King’s Landing. But it was significantly shorter than when he left. Hair in smaller braids now did no justice to the length he had before. It was something that grounded Derek in the North, and despite most suggestions, he wished to have some normalcy back.

Talia frowned at that. “At least you still dress sensibly,” she stated when she looked at Stiles.

Stiles pretended that he wasn’t paying attention to the slight.

“This is Mieczysław, of house Stilinski, and now Hale,” Derek finally stated as he reached an arm out to Stiles. “My husband.”

Emmett looked mortified, and betrayed, by Derek’s words.

Cora bit her tongue, knowing she wasn’t supposed to speak, even if it was her disgust for such a union.

Stiles moved as if Derek’s introduction was a command. He came forward at Derek’s beckoning, allowing the older man to wrap an arm around his waist. He wasn’t bothered by the intimacy—the closer to Derek, the safer he felt lately. “It’s very nice to meet you all,” he started with a small bow of his head. He caught the way Talia and Cora refused to bend their heads in respect like the others had.

“Should I restate it?” Derek suddenly asked, his voice terser than before.

Stiles turned to look at Derek, unsure what he meant.

“This is Mieczysław,  _ my husband _ ,” Derek forcefully stated once more. “The King Consort,” he added. “He deserves the same amount of respect that my station holds now.”

Nathan caught onto what was unfolding. “I’m sure they didn’t mean anything by it,” he calmly stated, his hand lightly squeezing Talia’s in a hopeful gesture. He slowly arched his eyebrows at his wife when she looked at him.

“We’re surprised, is all,” Talia finally replied to Derek, taking a forced bow of her head while refusing to look at Stiles.

“Why should you be surprised?” Derek asked, daring his mother to actually say what she meant.

“Darling,” Stiles started, interrupting the moment before a fight could occur. His voice was soft and sweet, as it normally was when in public. “We’ve been riding for days—perhaps we could rest before discussing anything further.”

“The bedroom in the West wing’s tower is ready for you,” Nathan offered, seeing Stiles’ comment as their only escape.

Stiles could feel the sudden rigidness in Derek’s body.

“Laura’s room,” Derek lowly stated.

“It was the master bedroom before your father hurt his leg, as I’m sure you remember,” Talia countered, knowing that a public dispute wasn’t going to help any of them. “You and Laura nearly tore each other’s heads off over who got the bigger room.”

Derek was about to say something when Stiles cleared his throat.

“Thank you, Lord and Lady Hale,” Stiles respectfully bowed his head to them again. “It’s very kind of you to see to that.” He looked at Derek. “Shall we retire?” He was grateful when Derek gave in to his request. He made sure not to even attempt looking at Cora.

Derek gave Stiles the reprieve he so wanted. He took Stiles’ arm, moving to escort them across the courtyard and towards the residence. He dared to look at Stiles, seeing the sadness that wasn’t quite covered up by Stiles’ perfected mask. His stomach churned knowing that meeting his family was just another glaring pain for Stiles.

The past was irreversible, and Derek had learned to accept that. But he was prepared to right the wrongs he could.

Derek forced himself to turn back, releasing Stiles’ arm for the moment.

Stiles turned to look at Derek, almost terrified that he was going to abandon him in the courtyard with strangers gawking at him.

Derek’s steps were sharp as he came to a quick stop before his parents. “You embarrass me by acting like that,” he lowly spoke to his mother. “I expected more from you than pettiness.” He drew in a deep breath, seeing Emmett staring up at him in confusion. “I wanted to make him feel welcomed for once—and you might as well have spat in his face.”

“Then you should have stayed  _ home _ ,” Cora suddenly uttered.

“Cora,” Talia stated her name in warning, her voice suddenly found again.

“Clearly this isn’t the home I remembered,” Derek emotionlessly stated as he angrily turned on his heel. He left his family behind, moving to take Stiles’ arm again.

Stiles kept pace with Derek. He was thankful that his legs were lengthy, knowing he’d have tripped more than once trying to keep up otherwise. He remained silent as they climbed the stairs of the West wing’s tower, glad to find it warmer the closer they got to their room. He allowed Derek to open the door, following in after him. He was relieved when he saw a trunk of his clothing present, wondering if he would be afforded the chance to change before supper.

“I’m sorry,” Derek suddenly started as he moved to close the door. “They shouldn’t have acted like that.”

Stiles was about to speak when a loud growl ripped through the room. He was taken by surprise when a small imp like creature burst from the armoire. He yelled in fear when the large, looming figure of a direwolf jumped onto the bed, its bared teeth sharp enough to rationally terrify any person. He stumbled backwards, crashing back into Derek as he fumbled for a safe escape.

Derek grabbed Stiles, maneuvering himself as a shield to protect Stiles from the threat. “Fenra!” He shouted at the direwolf, his voice sharp and commanding.

Fenra halted when she realized who it was she prepared to charge. She whined, her stance wilting as she folded down into a sitting position on the bed.

The imp like creature released another yell, running for Stiles.

Derek grabbed the small figure with ease, holding them at bay from Stiles. He pulled the helmet from its head, revealing a young female child. “Emma?” He incredulously asked. “What the hell were you thinking?”

Emma wordlessly tried to get around Derek, trying to get at Stiles.

Derek grabbed Emma, kneeling down to her level as he held a firm grip on her shoulders.

Stiles was pressed against the door, his gaze switching between the direwolf that was now lounging on the bed and Emma.

“I had to protect you,” Emma stated in defiance, her voice sharp and critical as she looked at Stiles. “Cora said that the deer man could only be defeated by a surprise attack—one he couldn’t see coming,” she continued. “But now you’re back under his control because he knows I’m here.”

Stiles stared at Emma, his stomach souring completely when he realized she was referring to him as this “deer man”.

“Cora said—” Derek stopped himself, holding back his anger for Cora. “Emma, what you did was very dangerous,” he sternly reprimanded her. “Do you have any idea what could have happened to Stiles if I wasn’t here?” He knew Emma was starting to understand the severity when she didn’t answer him. “Fenra is a wild animal, Emma. She listens to me because of our bond—she protects you because of that. If she thought Stiles was a threat, she would have killed him.”

“I’m sorry,” Emma weakly apologized as she stared at Derek’s knees. Tears were pricking her eyes as she started to realize what she did.

Fenra was still obediently laying on the bed, her head resting on her paws as she intently listened for Derek’s next instruction. Her eyes, however, never left Stiles.

“She said he was a shifter,” Emma shyly uttered.

“Cora lied,” Derek firmly stated, hoping it would sink in for Emma. “Stiles isn’t a shifter, like in our bedtime stories,” he continued. “Cora wanted to scare you and Emmett—she wanted to hurt Stiles’ feelings by making you all think mean things.”

Emma looked at Derek, her tears evident.

Derek hugged her tightly, cursing under his breath as he stood up with her in his arms. “Come here,” he instructed Stiles.

Stiles hesitated only for a moment before moving closer to Derek, hiding behind him when the direwolf lifted her head.

“Fenra, out,” Derek commanded as he opened the door, taking a step back to continue being a shield for Stiles.

Fenra rose, dropping down from the bed. She turned her head to observe Stiles as she passed, walking out the door with ease.

Stiles moved to sit on the bed, his knees weak from the adrenaline, as Derek shut the door behind Fenra. He looked at Emma in Derek’s arms. He wondered what horrific stories Cora told the child as he looked into the wide eyes that were staring at him over Derek’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Emma spoke into Derek’s shoulder.

Derek moved to set her on the ground.

Emma took a few hurried strides towards Stiles, halting as if she remembered something. She bowed quickly before moving in closer. “I’m glad you’re not a shifter.”

Stiles released a small breath. “I am, too.”

“Shifters are tricksters,” Emma explained. “Cora said that you tricked Derek into marrying you,” she continued, not seeing the surprise on Stiles’ face. “She said that you pretend to be everything that people like, and then turn on them when they are at their weakest.”

“Emma,” Derek sternly uttered her name when he saw Stiles’ saddening expression.

“I think she’s just jealous,” Emma answered Derek. “Stiles has such nice clothes, and gets to live in the Capital.” She turned to look at Stiles. “You have very pretty dressings,” she commented, her hand reaching out to touch the fur of Stiles’ cloak.

Stiles composed himself, looking at Emma. “Thank you,” he finally answered her. He was surprised when the little girl pressed forward, grabbing onto his necklace.

“I’ve seen this,” Emma stated, turning the pendant to inspect it. She examined the antlers and flower etched into the pendant. “Sir John has one just like it.”

Stiles looked up at Derek in surprise.

“Sir John is Stiles’ father,” Derek offered in explanation to Emma.

Emma looked excited about that statement. “You’re Mieczysław,” she stated in awe.

“Emma,” Derek started. “We’ve been traveling for more than a week,” he explained when his sister turned to look at him with a pout. “Stiles and I both need rest before supper.”

Emma looked disappointed, turning to curtsey to Stiles. “I’m sorry,” she stated. “I shouldn’t have attacked you. You’re not a shifter.”

Stiles nodded, his voice still lost on him.

Derek kept the door open for Emma to scurry out of. He watched his sister run out of the room. He closed the door after her, leaning against it as he looked at Stiles.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles started. “I must have sounded like such a nightmare.”

“That’s not your fault,” Derek sharply stated, taking steps closer to Stiles. “Cora decided she wanted to play a cruel joke.”

Stiles closed his eyes, shaking his head as he stood up. He pressed a hand to his stomach, looking at Derek with a small frown on his lips. “I’m tired,” he softly commented. “I’m not sure if you wish to join me,” he added, his gaze looking at the single bed in the room.

“I’ll leave you to catch some rest,” Derek offered instead, moving closer to Stiles. He placed a delicate kiss to Stiles’ forehead, a parting gesture he wished conveyed his hope that Stiles wouldn’t feel neglected. “If you need me, any of the servants can help you find where I am.”

Stiles nodded.

~*~

“You allow her to get away with everything,” Derek angrily uttered to his parents. “She went too far this time.”

“She didn’t mean for Emma to react in such a manner,” Talia tried to explain in a calming manner.

Derek turned to pace some. “You don’t know that.”

“I’ll talk to her,” Nathan finally uttered. “She’s stubborn,” he added as an afterthought. “You all are.”

Derek wished he could smile at his father’s jest. But he was still reeling about what happened. “Stiles could have died,” he concluded with a grim expression. He looked at his father. “She could be charged with assaulting the King Consort.”

“Derek, that’s a little extreme,” Talia countered. “She played a prank.”

“She’s not a child,” Derek loudly snapped at his mother. He looked at her. “You’ve always babied her, but I won’t,” he forcefully stated. “If she causes Stiles any more disrespect or harm, I’ll hold her accountable for her actions.” He turned to leave the great hall.

“You’d threaten your family because of him?” Talia demanded, her tone sharp and critical.

Derek’s steps lingered. “ _ He _ is my family now.”

“Perhaps the rumors are true, and he has bewitched you then,” Talia added.

“My love,” Nathan tiredly called to Talia, reaching a hand out to hold hers.

Derek turned to look at his parents. “He begged the Mad King to let Laura go,” he sharply uttered, recognizing the pain on their faces as a similar expression to the one he wore when speaking of Laura. “He was twelve,” he continued, taking a step closer to them. “He was slobbered over by Viseryn since John left him there. Remember? Laura went there to get him back, if you would do her memory justice.” He turned to look at the side door leading off into the kitchens, knowing that Cora had been hiding behind the door to listen through the cracks. “Stiles is the same age as Cora, yet you expect the world from him, and forgive her every fault.”

“Derek,” Talia started.

“No,” Derek forcefully uttered. “I’m sick of walking around on glass because Laura is gone.” He looked at his parents. “I mourned her. And I know you see her in Cora, and you try to make up for her loss by giving Cora everything. But Stiles didn’t kill Laura—she was his only friend at Court, and  _ that  _ is why Viseryn killed her. He thought she was too close to Stiles, and then discovered that she planned on taking him away from the Capital.” He released a saddened breath. “I blamed him—once. But I’ve seen what he’s like, and there is nothing but good in his heart, despite your insistence that he is sinister.”

Derek turned to leave his parents behind.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you all for your lovely comments so far. I don't have a chance to answer all of them, but I read them and love them all dearly.
> 
> I'll say this, it becomes easier in the next chapters to like Talia, once she starts coming to grips with things. Cora is going to be a tougher sell--she has a few moments, but she does come around in the end. I know some people are going to be upset by thing, so I'll just say, both her and Talia are exploring expressions of what grief can do to family members, and while sometimes it is nice to put a perfect bow on things to resolve it, it doesn't always end that way.
> 
> Extra trivia, the song Stiles sings is [Jenny of Oldstones](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZCnEJYds1iA), which was created for season 8 of GoT (you can find a varying amount of versions/covers; most popular is probably Florence + the Machine).
> 
> EDIT: passage of time; I edited Nathan's comment about it being a few years to 'over a year'. Sorry for the confusion with the timeline. I'll try to get a more in-depth timeline for things, I just forget sometimes that you're all not in my head <3

Derek tried to focus on the calm he felt sitting out in the courtyard. He ran his hands through Fenra’s fur, his fingertips digging down to scratch at the back of her ears.

Fenra tilted her head into Derek’s lap, releasing a huff of air.

Derek turned his head to look at the person approaching, unsurprised that it was his father.

Nathan shook his head, waving his hand at Derek to keep sitting when his son started to move. He took his time to sit on the small bench next to Derek. He stretched his leg out, his hand pressing own into the top of his thigh in a soothing manner.

“It still hurts?” Derek asked, looking at his father’s leg.

Nathan shrugged. “When it gets colder,” he offered. “Which is to be expected.”

“You can replace the augurs now,” Derek mused as he watched the people around them hustling about.

“And you the court fool, smartass,” Nathan answered with a slight laughter in his voice.

Derek faintly smiled. He had missed simple moments like this.

“I suppose you know why I came out here,” Nathan calmly started, something momentous hidden in his words.

“To quell my anger,” Derek retorted.

“You’re new to having a family of your own, so I figured I’d do you this favor,” Nathan corrected Derek as he turned to look at his son. “Your mother loves you. And it is the role of a parent to want your child to have what you do not.”

“I never wanted to be King,” Derek suddenly countered. “And I doubt mother wanted that.”

“You went to war for this family,” Nathan quickly stated. “When Viseryn killed Laura—” he paused, the weight of his daughter’s name still feeling strange. “Your mother mourned for days, and when she emerged from her grief, her second eldest child was gone—off to fight a rebellion. She feared she would lose you too.”

Derek shook his head. “I’m not a child—”

“You’re our child,” Nathan firmly corrected Derek. “You’ll always be  _ our child _ , regardless of how old you get.”

Derek looked down at Fenra, thankful for her weight pressed against him as a distraction. “You can’t fault me for reprimanding Cora.”

“Cora was out of line,” Nathan agreed. “But you haven’t lived with the news we’ve had here.”

Derek looked at his father.

Nathan shifted his weight some to accommodate the ache in his leg.“We hear limited tales about the Capital,” he explained. “What we hear is the worst of it.”

“You hear that Stiles is a blight, you mean,” Derek sharply stated.

“Emma is young and impressionable to Cora’s stories,” Nathan replied instead. “We know Stiles isn’t a shapeshifter.”

“Just a witch,” Derek bitterly uttered.

“How do you think it felt to hear that your eldest son, and heir, married the boy who Viseryn nearly burned the realm apart for?” Nathan finally demanded of Derek.

“How do you think Stiles feels to have everyone paint him as the vicious whore of the Mad King?” Derek demanded back, anger in his voice as he looked at his father.

“Was he?”

Derek knew what his father was doing.

Nathan arched his eyebrows at Derek. “Well? Is he the Dragon’s Whore? Or the Wolf’s Bitch?”

A low growl grew out of the silence between them.

Fenra’s head was still resting in Derek’s lap, though her lips were curled back now to bare her fangs as her growl steadily continued. She felt Derek’s muscles tense and stiffen at Nathan’s words, knowing Derek was no longer calm.

“Careful, father,” Derek lowly uttered. “He is my husband and Consort, not some mistress you disapprove of.” His hand ran down Fenra’s neck, the gesture firm but calming in nature.

Fenra’s growl stifled off to a huff of annoyance as she rested back into Derek’s lap.

A pause cut between them before Nathan finally replied, “You’re fooling no one.”

Derek looked at his father. “What does that mean?”

Nathan gave Derek an incredulous look. “You don’t love him.”

Derek opened his mouth to protest his father’s accusation.

“And he doesn’t love you,” Nathan added before Derek could argue. “You’ve been married for over a year now, and there is still nothing binding you together besides a rushed ceremony in the Sept of Baelor.” He sighed. “I don’t know if that’s more lies being spread by the Argents, or if it is true. But I know what I see, and I do not see love.”

Derek looked away from his father. He remained silent as he watched the children running around, their boisterous laughter the only constant noise bustling through the otherwise empty courtyard.

“Did you love mother?” Derek finally asked.

Nathan was quiet for a moment as he digested Derek’s question. “No,” he honestly answered. “And I  _ know _ she hated me.”

Derek gave his father a disbelieving look.

“I wasn’t my brother,” Nathan offered with a shrug. He had known he was no replacement for Edward, and Talia had made that abundantly clear in their first interactions. “Lucky for you, your only competition is Emmett.”

Derek had seen the way his brother stared at Stiles in awe and admiration. He was happy to see such affections being directed at Stiles for once.

“But we grew closer over our marriage—”

“Then can’t I make things work with Stiles the way you both have?” Derek questioned.

“You could,” Nathan replied. “If you are both open to it.”

“It’s not that we’re not open to it,” Derek pressed. “You and mother didn’t have everyone against you and what your marriage stands for.”

“Not in the sense you’re thinking,” Nathan countered. “But there were many who did not want it to be successful.”

Derek looked down at his boots, gently kicking his foot out against the mud. “I’m afraid he already loves another.”

Nathan looked at Derek. “You’re certain of that?”

“He’s had an affection for one knight,” was the only thing Derek offered.

“Affections can be hard to alter,” Nathan began. “Though that doesn’t mean he can’t feel affection for you, too.”

Derek did not answer his father.

Nathan shifted his weight, clearly his throat some. “It’s not from a lack of attempts, is it?”

Derek’s brow furrowed as he turned his head to observe his father.

“Sometimes it can be difficult to...” Nathan pause as he gestured lower than their torsos. “ _ Maintain _ a state of …  _ arousal _ —”

“Stop,” Derek loudly and sharply ordered as he closed his eyes in embarrassment. “It’s nothing like that.”

“Oh, good,” Nathan answered with a light nod of his head. “I don’t think we’ve ever had that talk, actually.”

“Thankfully,” Derek replied. "And I would keep it that way."

~*~

Stiles kept to himself when he finally descended from the room. He slept for a few hours, feeling a little more refreshed once he actually rested. He dressed in finer robes than his travel dressings, hoping that they weren’t too fancy for his first dinner with Derek’s family.

The robes were a deep burgundy, intricate designs woven into the fabric. A decorative trim of gold followed along the hem of his robes, trailing on the ground behind him. The neckline was high, a collar reaching up to Stiles’ throat. Fur covered his shoulders in an attempt to keep him warm against the harsh winter cold seeping into the halls. He wore a clean pair of dress boots, different than the dirtied riding boots he had selected to wear for the journey. His trousers were simpler than his robes, though he elected for comfort over fashion for the first time in months. He appreciated the change greatly.

Stiles found his way into the kitchens, following the smell of spices. He offered a kind smile to the various servants, trying to appear approachable despite the wide berth they gave him.

“Stiles!” Emma excitedly yelled when she saw him enter the kitchens. She jumped down from her spot near the fire, dumping the unpeeled potatoes back into the basket at her feet. She ran over to Stiles with a joy in her step.

Emmett stayed sitting quietly by the fire as he concentrated on his own potato. He had wanted to play a game with Emma, but ended up getting dragged into the kitchen with his sister. His cheeks flushed when he saw Stiles.

Stiles offered a smile to Emma, allowing her to take his hand.

“We’re getting dinner ready,” Emma explained as she brought Stiles over to the fire. “Would you like to help us?”

“My lady,” one of the cooks started to address Emma in a stern tone. He was one of the older people in the kitchens, clearly knowing his way around the place. “I’m sure His Majesty has other things to do,” he firmly stated with a bow of his body to Stiles.

“I wouldn’t mind,” Stiles admitted, his hand still holding tightly to Emma’s.

“See?” Emma triumphantly smiled at Stiles. “He wants to help,” she boasted.

“We allow Lady Emma and Lord Emmett to help out of their own curiosity,” the cook explained. “They needn’t work so hard—nor request assistance.” It was as if the man was trying to explain away why a young lady and lord of a high born house would be working in the kitchens.

“I used to sit with the cooks in the Capital’s kitchens,” Stiles offered. He wasn’t surprised to see the look of shock on several of the servants’ faces. “There is a quiet in the kept order of things,” he explained.

It had been a way for Stiles to hide from both Dragon King and Prince. Both men thought servant’s quarters were beneath the nobles, and never thought to look for Stiles there.

Stiles moved to join Emma beside the fire, pretending to follow her childish instructions on how to properly peel a potato. He smiled at Emmett when he looked up at him. He suppressed his soft chuckle when Emmett blushingly looked away. He took the knife from Emma, turning the potato in his hand as he started to expertly peel the vegetable.

Emma was leaning over in her seat to watch Stiles, her face getting closer and closer to Stiles as she stared at the knife and potato. “That’s really good, Stiles!” She excited stated when he finished peeling the first potato.

Emmett snuck a look at Stiles’ potato, turning his own in his hand to try and mimic him. He gasped when he dropped his potato, helplessly watching it bounce off of the bucket the peels were in.

Stiles quickly snatched the potato up in his hand before it had a chance to hit the ground.

“Wow!” Emma excitedly clapped. “You’re so fast.”

Stiles smiled as he offered the potato to Emmett.

Emmett shyly took the potato back, mumbling out a soft “Thank you,” to Stiles.

“You put the ones ready for Nessy in the bowl,” Emma pointed towards the bowl of peeled potatoes on the table next to them. “And all the skins go in this bucket,” she pointed to the bucket by their feet. “And then we get to feed them to the piggies!”

“And where are the piggies?” Stiles asked.

“Oh!” Emma excitedly jumped down. She clasped ahold of Stiles’ hand, pushing the bucket’s handle into Stiles’ free hand as she pulled him across the kitchen. “They’re outside in the pens! I’ll show you,” she uttered, still pulling Stiles after her.

Emmett got down from his stool, chasing after Emma and Stiles with his potato still in his hand. He let it go without a fight when Nessy grabbed it from his hand as he hurried by.

Emma released Stiles’ hand when they reached the pens just outside the courtyard. She excitedly climbed up the first bar in the fence, her feet balancing on the wood plank as she hugged the one under her chin. She reached her arm through the pen to point at the pigs at the troughs. “Look at them! They’re so big!” She exclaimed.

Stiles moved to stand beside Emma, looking down at the pigs as some of them rolled around in the mud as others picked at the food in the troughs. “They’re very big,” he noted in agreement with Emma.

“It’s our job to take care of them now,” Emma explained as she gestured back towards Emmett’s fast approaching form.

“That’s a big responsibility,” Stiles playfully noted.

“Derek used to take care of them,” Emmett stated as he peered through the wooden planks to see the pigs. “We can do it fine,” he tried to confidently state.

Stiles smiled as he nodded his head. “I don’t doubt that,” he stated. He took a step to the side, moving to open the pen.

Emma and Emmett looked horrified when they heard the latch moving. “No!” Both twins yelled when the pen door opened a bit.

“Why?” Stiles started to ask when suddenly multiple pigs began herding towards the door. He tried to push the door back shut against one of the pigs, only to discover that he grossly underestimated the strength of an adult pig.

Suddenly, a warm body was beside Stiles, shoving the pen door shut with great strength. Stiles looked at the hands that braced the pen’s door, knowing he would have recognized them as Derek’s even without the rings of a monarch.

“Never open the pen when you have a food bucket,” Derek’s voice calmly explained.

Stiles sagged against Derek, looking up at the older man with an apologetic expression. “I’m sorry. I’m a horrible help, it appears,” he offered as his cheeks flushed a light pink. 

“I was strolling by, couldn’t ignore helping a damsel,” Derek joked.

“Oh, my hero,” Stiles mumbled, a gentle smile pulling at his lips when he heard Derek lightly chuckle.

Emma excitedly clapped while Emmett looked on in envied annoyance as he glared at Derek.

“What were you three doing?” Derek asked.

“I was trying to help with cooking,” Stiles started.

“You should see Stiles peel a potato!” Emma exclaimed as she jumped down from the fence. “He’s amazing!”

Derek arched his brow at Stiles, amusement playing across his features.

“I can cook,” Stiles forcefully countered whatever Derek was thinking.

“Emma, Emmett!” Nessy called out to the young lady and lord. “Your mother is looking for ya’,” she concluded, waving at the children to come back inside.

“You better get going,” Derek instructed his siblings, gesturing his head towards the kitchen’s side door where Nessy was lingering.

Emma grabbed Emmett’s hand, pulling him after her.

Emmett stumbled some as he tried to look back at Stiles, disappointed when he realized Stiles was staying outside with Derek.

Stiles lingered with the bucket in hand, watching as the children scuttled away. “They’ve so much energy,” he noted as he watched Derek successfully secure the pen door once more.

“I imagine I was much the same,” Derek admitted.

“It’s hard to think of you as a child,” Stiles commented.

Derek turned to look at Stiles. “Meaning?”

“Meaning, you’re much too serious to be a child,” Stiles elaborated.

“I’m not as serious as you think,” Derek replied as he took the bucket from Stiles’ relaxed grip. He strode over to the side of the fence the troughs were beside, taking a step up onto the fence. He easily tipped the bucket up to deposit the contents into the trough below, much to the delight of the pigs.

“Show off,” Stiles snorted with a smirk as he put his hands on his hips. “I was told the twins do this now, not you.”

“I used to,” Derek answered as he stepped back down.

Stiles hummed. “Emmett told me,” he explained. “He seemed determined to do it better than you, too.”

Derek shook his head as he stepped down from the fence. “He wants to impress you,” he offered instead. “I think it’s safe to say he has a crush on the Stag of High Garden.”

Stiles smiled. “He’s sweet,” he admitted. “I think they’ve been the nicest nobles I’ve had the pleasure of meeting,” he jokingly added.

“Wait until they want something,” Derek answered as he started to head back towards the kitchens. “Though, I think Emmett would love to give you anything you wanted.”

Stiles walked beside Derek. “Are you jealous?” He teasingly questioned.

“He’s six,” Derek replied.

"Doesn't answer my question," Stiles didn’t hide his smirk. “He’s a handsome young lad,” he jested.

“You aim to set brother against brother,” Derek musingly huffed.

Stiles stepped closer to Derek as they walked along, hooking his arm with Derek’s. “That implies that you’re jealous of such a notion,” he commented.

Derek accepted Stiles’ intimate gesture, keeping close as they matched each other’s pace. He hoped it meant they were reaching a better place together. He caught sight of his father looking at them from the distant side of the courtyard, their conversation still fresh in his mind. “I’d have to be jealous of too many people if I took fault with everyone who loved you.”

Stiles kept quiet as he walked along with Derek, uncertain if Derek felt him tighten his hold.

~*~

The crypt was cold and dark, torches lining the walls to give some form of illumination. There were statues before each tomb encasing a deceased Hale, their images permanently carved for future generations to see.

Stiles twisted the stems of the flowers in his fingers as he watched the petals rotate. He wasn’t sure how long he had been standing in front of Laura’s statue, knowing someone would come looking for him soon. He looked up at Laura’s statue, reaching a hand out to rest the flowers in her cupped hands. He stared at Laura’s features, knowing that nothing could do her justice.

Stiles waited until Derek left for his morning hunt. He feigned disinterest, knowing that he could never bring himself to kill an animal, despite the use of its meat and pelts. He wanted Derek to have something that was his own--letting Derek reclaim a part of what he had before the rebellion.

“It really is beautiful,” Stiles whispered in the empty space. “Just like you said.” He placed his hand over his mouth, trying to stop the sob that hiccuped from his chest. “I’m sorry I couldn’t bring you home.” Tears rolled down his cheeks as he stared at Laura’s statue, knowing there wasn’t a body in the closed tomb behind it. He closed his eyes as he prayed.

~*~

“It gets so cold, you can see your breath,” Laura smiled at Stiles’ fascination. “It looks like fog.”

Stiles released a heavy breath. “I’ve never seen snow,” he admitted.

“You will,” Laura replied.

Stiles frowned at that. “The King wouldn’t like that.”

Laura reached out, placing a comforting hand over Stiles’ trembling ones. “We haven’t forgotten you.”

“I didn’t get to mourn my mother,” Stiles stated, as if it was only one of the heaviest weights pinning him down. He looked at Laura, knowing there were tears--tears that he couldn’t shed when the King lingered. “She’s buried at Storm’s End. And father keeps writing to the King, asking for me to go home. But he says King’s Landing is my home now. I’m afraid I’ll die here, never to return home.”

Laura brushed her thumb over Stiles’ knuckles. “We all return home one day,” she explained. “Generations of Hales are returned to Winterfell when they die,” she absently spoke, as if she was more occupied with what her father had told her. “We die, and we’re returned to the crypts beneath the ground.”

“Will you go back?” Stiles asked.

Laura was silent for a beat. “No.”

Stiles looked at Laura in surprise.

“I want to be buried on a hill somewhere,” Laura suddenly stated. She smiled at that thought. “Where the sun and the grass can be my home. A place where flowers can grow, and they smell like wildflowers and not the sickly sweet ones in the godswood. Some place nice.”

“Mama always said the godswood was nice,” Stiles countered.

Laura looked at Stiles. “Have you seen the godswood?” She asked, unsurprised when Stiles shook his head. “Would you go--to Winterfell? To see your father?”

Stiles looked startled by Laura’s suggestion. “I … I can’t.”

“I’m working to change that,” Laura softly replied.

Stiles didn’t know, in that moment, Laura had already known the outcome.

~*~

_ I offer up this prayer, in the name of the Seven. May the Stranger grant that the grass beneath your feet guides you, and the light of the sun warms your cheek. May the Smith place a crown of flowers on your head. May the Warrior grant Derek your courage. May the light of the Crone illuminate your way in the darkest of nights. May the Maiden know your smile for its beauty and comfort. May the Mother understand your strength. And may the Father bring you justice. _

~*~

Stiles sipped the warmed honeyed wine. He found himself enjoying its sweet taste and warmth, though the aroma was still unusual to him. He would have to ask for some of it to be brought back to King's Landing with him.

"I heard that you sing," Nathan simply spoke to Stiles.

Stiles looked at Nathan, a small frown pulling at his lips. "I've only sung a little," he offered. He looked down at the wine in his mug, unsure if his stomach was churning with the alcohol or his own bitterness of the memories.

"Would you grace us with something?" Nathan inquired.

Stiles shook his head. "I know no songs that are worthy of your halls," he tried to avoid insulting the Hales.

Nathan's brow creased some, as if he was trying to understand Stiles' reluctance.

"Are our halls not worthy of your songs?" Cora demanded.

"Cora," Nathan started as a warning. "That isn't what Stiles said."

"I'm sure Stiles does not know our songs," Talia added, her words unhelpful despite her attempt to quell the situation.

"It's true, I know only a few songs," Stiles replied. He turned his head to look at the entrance to the hall, wishing Derek would return from his day hunt sooner. He had been the one to urge Derek to enjoy himself. Part of him wished he had gone with Derek instead of braving the Hales on his own.

"That's unfortunate," Talia commented, taking a sip of her own wine. "Derek is quite fond of song."

Stiles pretended he didn't see Nathan touching a hand to his wife's shoulder, a gentle gesture to ask her to cease.

The silence dragged on for a moment, the crackle of the fire filling the void. Memories of the Mad King applauding Stiles, leering eyes that spoke volumes of the old man's intent still haunting him. He remembered a time when he loved to dance and sing, before the Mad King turned it into a game.

Stiles' voice started softly, as if he wasn’t sure of which notes to sing. His words grew in volume, the melody nothing more than the crackle of the fire.

_ High in the halls of the kings who are gone _

_ Jenny would dance with her ghosts _

_ The ones she had lost and the ones she had found _

_ And the ones who had loved her to most _

_ The ones who’d been gone for so very long _

_ She couldn’t remember their names _

_ They spun her around on the damp old stones _

_ Spun away all her sorrow and pain _

_ And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave _

_ Never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave _

Memories of the mad king came back. The old man muttering satisfactory words of praise for Stiles, enjoying the sound of his voice echoing off the near empty great hall. Dance, the king would promptly order, wanting to watch Stiles spinning around as the words brought up thoughts of a caged songbird for a captor’s amusement.

Laura had taught Stiles the song, knowing the young lord enjoyed songs as an escape from the torment he suffered in the Keep. She taught him the song her mother had sung for them often.

Stiles always wondered when the king would break his wings. He never imagined it would have happened in the weeks to come, burning a young noble lady from the North for daring to give Stiles the hope of escape.

Stiles hadn’t realized he had been crying tears until the song ended, his voice halting as he reached a hand up to brush away his tears. He stood up when the others remained silent, choosing this moment as his time to escape with little excuse. He stumbled some when he saw Derek standing by the entrance to the hall. He tore his gaze away from Derek as he fled.

~*~

“It’s cold,” Stiles choicely uttered, breathing out a puff of breath to watch a smoky cloud of hot air travel through the space before him. Part of him knew Derek would follow him, and the other part wanted Derek to. He didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts. He was surprised when he felt a heavy weight of furs land on his shoulders, wrapping around him as the coat laid over his back. He looked over his shoulder at Derek, realizing he had given him his furs. “I wish you hadn’t heard that,” he finally uttered, looking away from Derek.

Derek’s brow creased. “Why?”

“I used to love to sing and dance,” Stiles explained. “Until he made it all into a game.” His features grimaced. “An unbeatable game.” He turned to look at Derek. “He broke me,” he weakly admitted.

Derek reached a hand out to touch Stiles’ face, his fingers gently caressing the curve of Stiles’ jaw. He pulled Stiles in close, determined to not let him shy away. “He hurt you,” he offered. “He didn’t break you.”

Stiles didn’t hesitate as he leaned in, quickly kissing Derek. He pulled back for a moment, surprised by his own actions. He opened his mouth to apologize, pleasantly startled when Derek drew him back in for another kiss. He opened his mouth into Derek’s, welcoming their shared affection. He gently moaned into their kiss as he reached his hands out to cradle Derek’s face.

“Tell me that was welcomed,” Derek immediately uttered when their lips parted.

Stiles released a soft breath of laughter. “It was welcomed,” he echoed Derek’s words. “Besides, I kissed you first.”

Derek brushed his thumb over Stiles’ cheek, admiring his open expression. “I think I would never tire of kissing you,” he uttered.

A blush covered Stiles’ cheeks in blotchy patches. “Then don’t stop,” he breathlessly answered, pleased when Derek drew him back in for another kiss.

The pain in Stiles’ chest started to unwind, a comforting warmth replacing it. He was scared to think of a life without Derek now, realizing that he did the one thing he had tried to avoid—he started to fall in love.

~*~

Derek cradled Nicholas in his arms. He pressed a faint kiss to his brother’s forehead.

Nicholas squirmed, stretching his arms out as he kicked his legs. He yawned, swaying some in Derek’s hold.

Derek smiled as he looked at his brother.

“How old is he?” Stiles asked as he watched.

“He’ll be two soon,” Talia answered Stiles, her gaze still on her two sons.

Stiles faintly smiled. “He’s beautiful,” he stated. He found the way Derek held Nicholas to be endearing, unsure if he had seen Derek hold anything as delicately as he was now. “You seem to know what you’re doing,” he stated as he watched Derek shift Nicholas to ease his fussing into sleep.

“I had younger siblings,” Derek explained with a faint smile. “Emma was a particularly fussy baby.”

Stiles smiled at that—it was nice to have even the smallest insight into what Derek’s life had been before the war.

“Your Majesty,” one of the guards interrupted. “Lord Hale has announced that some of the lords are here.”

Derek nodded, turning to place Nicholas back in bed. He paused, looking at Stiles. “Do you want to hold him?”

Stiles hesitated for a moment, unsure if Talia would allow him. “If that’s alright,” he began, looking at Talia.

“If you want,” Talia offered, her voice less clipped than before.

Stiles reached his arms out to take Nicholas, surprised when the boy turned his face into his shoulder. He looked at Derek, a little lost.

“You must be comfortable,” Derek mused.

Stiles playfully narrowed his eyes at Derek before looking down at Nicholas.

Talia caught the way Derek’s gaze lingered on Stiles—particularly the image Stiles made.

“I’ll see you at dinner,” Derek quickly stated when he realized he was lingering.

Nicholas fussed some when the sound of the door closing woke him. He was alert when seeing that someone else was holding him. He stared, motionless, up at Stiles. He blinked his eyes a few times before reaching his arm up, chubby little fingers grabbing at Stiles’ chin.

Stiles was surprised by Nicholas’ response. “Hi,” he mumbled just as Nicholas’ fingers pushed at his lips. He faintly laughed at that, pleased to see Nicholas mimicking his smile.

“He likes you,” Talia stated.

Stiles looked up at Talia, about to say something when Nicholas grabbed at his face again. “I’m sure I just look weird to him. Babies tend to stare,” he offered a faint laugh.

Talia turned her head to the side. “Healers say babies stare when they find someone beautiful,” she explained.

Stiles looked down at Nicholas, wondering if Talia was telling the truth.

“You don’t have siblings, do you?” Talia asked.

Stiles shook his head. “No, my mother got sick after I was born,” he answered. “My father never remarried.”

“I see,” Talia remarked. “You seem good at this,” she gestured to Stiles’ arms, where he was rocking Nicholas to sleep with a small sway of his arms.

Stiles looked up at Talia. “Many nobles brought their children to King’s Landing for the king to bless,” he explained, his gaze falling to the ground. “He’d have me hold some of them.”

Talia’s features softened some.

“I know what people say about me,” Stiles continued, forcing himself to look up at Talia. “I’ve never had a child,” he bluntly uttered. “Though the Mad King liked to imagine I someday would give him one.”

Talia nodded. “And what about Derek?”

Stiles was surprised by Talia’s question. “One day,” he stopped himself, taking in a breath. “If Derek wants to have a child with me, and we are blessed with that, then yes. Perhaps someday.”

~*~

“Do you think you’re an actual deer or something?” Cora questioned, her nose wrinkled in distaste at Stiles’ plate.

Stiles looked at Cora, his gaze turning to look at the other Hales. He wasn’t surprised that they were all gawking at him—all but Derek. “High Garden’s diet is different, I suppose,” he commented, uncertain how the Hales knew to accommodate him. “We don’t really rely on such fine meat,” he added, hoping it sounded like that compliment he meant it to be.

Stiles had been worried when they sat down for dinner, knowing that the Northern diet was heartier than he had been accustomed to. He had been pleasantly surprised when a traditional serving of vegetables, legumes, and cheese were presented. He didn’t miss though how no one else at the table were partaking in similar fashion.

“Derek had mentioned that you had a lighter diet,” Talia explained, her eyes flickering over to Derek briefly. “I apologize if it was presumptuous of us to guess what that meant,” she concluded.

“No apology is necessary,” Stiles answered. “It was very kind of you to think of me.”

“Hard not to when the King barks orders at us,” Cora countered.

“Cora,” Nathan spoke his daughter’s name in warning.

“Am I not allowed to speak the truth?” Cora pressed, looking at her parents. “You know, I hear that it’s common practice in King’s Landing for heads of houses to assume the traits of their sigils—I suppose it makes sense for him to eat like a deer.”

“Knock it off,” Derek partially growled at Cora. “You’re spreading rumors like a local fishwife.”

“You’re saying you don’t act like a wolf?” Cora countered, looking at her brother. “Prowling around the throne like a predator. Or that your husband doesn’t act like a dainty flower—a decoration to be admired.”

Derek rolled his eyes, knowing that Cora was only going to continue if he argued with her.

“Wolves, deers, flowers,” Cora started to list the different houses. She looked at Stiles, “Even dragons.”

Stiles tightened his hold on the chair’s cushion, wishing he had the nerve to tell Cora the truth.

“Burning everything in sight—”

“That’s enough!” Derek snapped at Cora. “Leave the table,” he ordered.

Cora didn’t move, her gaze looking to her parents. She was surprised when neither one of them made a motion to counter Derek.

“Either stop acting like a brat and grow up,” Derek reprimanded. “Or leave the table.” He wasn’t surprised when Cora looked a little bewildered by their parents’ silence—she had never been forced to deal with him as a king, only as a brother.

“Derek,” Stiles softly started, looking at him. “She was just poking fun,” he stated.

“Shut up!” Cora angrily snapped at Stiles as she stood from the table. “I don’t need  _ you  _ to defend me.” She threw her napkin down on the table, marching away.

“Don’t come back into the hall until you apologize, either,” Derek added onto his order.

Cora halted, her hands tightening into fists. “I’ll never apologize to a dragon’s whore.”

The words still cut, despite it not being the first time Stiles’ heard them. He wanted to laugh, to call her a hypocrite for calling him such a name. He had access to a large enough network of spies to know Cora’s maidenhead had long since departed. He knew what Cora would retaliate with—that he’s defective, unable to satisfy a lover.

The words hurt because Stiles knew them to be false—he couldn’t be a whore when no one but a dead mad man wanted him.

Derek’s features had darkened the moment the words left Cora’s mouth. He abruptly stood, nearly toppling his chair.

“Cora!” Nathan yelled at her.

“You make amends for that comment, young lady,” Talia sternly ordered her daughter.

Cora stormed away without another word, leaving the room in a tense silence as she ran out.

Stiles looked to his right, catching a glimpse of the movement beside him.

Emmett had moved his chair closer to Stiles, wanting to make his task easier. He pushed his plate between himself and Stiles, offering up the finely cut meat. “You can share with me,” he mumbled, staring down at the plate as he tried to keep his nerve.

It was as if the young Hale hadn’t witnessed the sudden exchange of harsh words.

Stiles smiled at that, holding back the tears that were welling in his throat from Cora’s previous words. “I would like that,” he answered Emmett.

Emmett shyly looked up, a small smile on his face as he offered his fork to Stiles.

~*~

Stiles paced as he unraveled the letter, his footsteps echoing in the rookery. His free hand fidgeted with his locket as he read his grandmother’s words with care under the soft glow of the burning torches.

_ Spiders are in the garden, my flower. Take care who you trust. The lions are hungry. Send word when you’ve finally acted. Things cannot be set into motion until the act is done. _

Stiles walked over to the torch, placing the parchment in the flame. He watched as it burned, only dropping it when he was satisfied it had been destroyed. He stamped the lingering ash under his boot. He would send a reply in the morning, knowing it would reach his grandmother by nightfall, per usual. He pulled his robes around his body even tighter, the chill coming from somewhere deeper than the cold evening air.

~*~

“You didn’t have to do that,” Stiles finally spoke as he shed his clothes to prepare for bed.

Derek turned to look at Stiles. “Do what?” He slowly averted his eyes away from Stiles, seeing Stiles’ naked back before his nightshirt settled over his head.

“Tell Cora to leave the table,” Stiles answered, finally turning to look at Derek.

“She needed to be told that,” Derek calmly replied as he tossed his trousers over onto the clothing chest. “She’s never been outside these walls, yet acts like she knows all.”

Stiles moved to sit on the edge of the bed as he observed Derek. “She was just a child when Laura left for King’s Landing.”

Derek’s movements slowed. “She was twelve,” he replied.

“And you were seventeen, Derek,” Stiles countered. He wasn’t surprised when Derek turned a critical eye towards him. “You spent summers in Storm’s End, conditioned for a life outside of Winterfell. She thought she’d follow in Laura’s steps—use her as an example.”

“You’re the same age—”

“—I grew up with the Mad King,” Stiles quickly countered whatever argument Derek was going to give. “I had to be different,” he softly admitted.

Derek looked at Stiles. “And you think, despite all you’ve been through, that Cora should be allowed to treat you poorly?”

Stiles sighed. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but she isn’t too fond of you, either.”

“I can deal with that,” Derek uttered. He moved to sit on the foot of the bed. He scrubbed a hand over his features, running his hand through his hair as he tried to soothe the headache he felt growing. “This was supposed to be a pleasant break,” he defeatingly admitted.

Stiles moved to sit on the bed next to Derek, drawing his legs up into a crossed manner. He gently placed his hands on Derek’s shoulders, his grip tightening some as he tried to work Derek’s strained muscles into a relaxed state. He pressed his thumbs into the pressure points of Derek’s shoulder blades.

“Fuck,” Derek muttered as his back hunched a little. “Since when were you a healer?” He mindlessly asked, relaxing into Stiles’ hands.

“When I realized I carried myself with a knot in my spine,” Stiles replied. “I used to get so worried about all that was happening in King’s Landing,” he started in explanation, moving his hands along Derek’s spine in order to massage his lower back. “And then finally, I just couldn’t take standing and prostrating anymore—my body tied up in knots.”

Derek turned his head to look at Stiles, catching a glimpse of Stiles’ vacantly open expression. “We never finished talking at the ford,” he suddenly commented.

Stiles’ hands smoothed down Derek’s back, fingers pulling at the fabric of Derek’s night shirt. “Does it matter?” He weakly asked.

“Does it matter to you that I have stressed muscles?” Derek countered.

Stiles looked at Derek.

“Am I not allowed to worry about your past?” Derek pressed.

“It’s my past,” Stiles uttered, pulling his hands away from Derek. “You can’t do anything about it now, Derek. It’s happened, and I vowed I’d never relive it.”

Derek was quiet as he turned his body towards Stiles. “You never should have had to live it,” he concluded.

“And knowing that you think that,” Stiles began. “That’s enough.”

How could he possibly tell Derek about Veryn’s taunting threats? How could he relive the terror of knowing both Targaryen men sought to claim him as their own? He vowed to never allow their memories to haunt him again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kind of a nice chapter. Lots of emotional healing. Derek and Stiles progressing in their relationship really just makes me the happiest. I hope you enjoy this chapter! <3
> 
> Slight Content Warning: Stiles talks about what happened to him the day/night of the rebellion, includes assault/sexual assault.

“This is your first time in the North, correct?” Talia asked Stiles in an attempt to start small talk between them. She was desperate to change the tension Cora had created yesterday, before the celebration had officially started. She also knew she couldn’t ignore the vulnerability she had seen earlier today. She saw something crack through the mask Stiles wore, and it unsettled her to see even the smallest glimpse of the agony Stiles appeared to hide.

Talia regretted her coldness towards Stiles, and she was uncertain if she could rectify such a wrong. But she was willing to admit a wrong and try.

“It is,” Stiles answered, taking his eyes off of Derek and the young woman. He had seen her looking at Derek when people began to gather, but this was the first time he saw her talking to him. He wanted to pretend that he wasn’t jealous when Derek laughed at something she said. He forced himself to look at Talia. “It’s very beautiful, even with its coldness.”

Talia faintly smiled at that. “It’s a harsh land, but it is steadfast.”

“It’s livelier here,” Stiles softly commented.

Talia looked perplexed by Stiles’ words.

“It’s … lonely—in King’s Landing,” Stiles offered in explanation.

Talia partially frowned as she nodded in understanding.

One of the young ladies approached the table, taking a respectful bow to Talia and Stiles. “My Lady,” she greeted. “Your Majesty,” she addressed Stiles.

“Hello, little dove,” Stiles softly greeted her with a warm smile.

“This is the youngest Lady Morland,” Talia introduced the girl.

“Do you have older brothers or sisters?” Stiles asked.

“Sisters, Your Majesty,” Lady Morland answered. “I’m only thirteen,” she shyly added.

“You’re tall for your age, then,” Stiles answered with a soft smile. He knew that even he wasn’t that tall when he met Laura. “Hopefully still growing—upstage them all.”

The young girl blushed at that.

“You have a very lovely dress, regardless of being the youngest,” Stiles added. He had heard of some ladies and lordlings having either imported cloth, or going as far as creating their own dresses for his arrival. He had wished such rumors about him hadn’t reached even this far North.

“I made it myself,” Lady Morland answered Stiles.

“It’s beautiful,” Stiles replied with a smile. “Such a talent to have. My mother sewed most of her own things—mine as well. I must confess, I’m terrible at sewing,” he admitted. He genuinely smiled when the girl lightly laughed. “You’ll have to make something for me to bring back to the Capital,” he added.

Lady Morland’s expression lit up. “Really?”

Stiles nodded with a smile.

Talia nodded at Lady Morland in gesture for her to depart. She turned to Stiles, “That was kind of you, but unnecessary.”

Stiles looked at her. “I was sincere,” he honestly answered.

“They’re all fascinated with you,” Talia explained. “You’re something of a faery tale to them—something the Old Gods would have conjured before the Frost.”

Stiles made a soft noise of understanding. “I suppose they forget that even faery tales have their monsters,” he weakly commented.

Talia looked at Stiles, carefully watching him. She wondered what sadness Stiles was harboring, his words troubling her more than anything. She saw Stiles’ gaze was once more on Derek and the young noble woman practically glued to her son’s side.

“Derek has many friends in the North,” Talia started, taking up her own wine. “Many were saddened when he left for Storm’s End—to be trained by your father was the envy of many young ones.”

Stiles nodded. “Many suitors must have been heartbroken,” he sullenly commented when he saw the woman’s hand lingering on Derek’s arm.

Talia sighed, seeing the display in front of them. She had hoped Derek would have wised up while in King’s Landing, realizing when one was flirting. “My son is by far the most oblivious of my children,” she finally stated, looking at Stiles.

Stiles forced a kind smile onto his lips as he looked at Talia. “He is a remarkable man,” he honestly replied. “I cannot find fault with others seeing that.”

Talia turned her head from Stiles to look back at Derek. She was surprised to find herself unhappy with Stiles’ hurt, believing that she would have once been joyed to see the young man upset at the prospect of Derek finding comfort with another.

~*~

Stiles brushed his fingers through his hair, looking at himself in the mirror. He didn’t have to pamper himself, already prepared for bed—it was the distraction that he welcomed. He was busy thinking about Derek, and how delayed he was in coming to bed. He hated how it twisted his stomach in knots.

Stiles thought of the letter he sent his grandmother that morning, knowing it would disappoint her. He wouldn’t use Derek that way, wanting to wait for them to connect on a deeper level than to rely on the necessity of their titles. He knew he was falling in love with Derek, capable of knowing his jealousy was digging at him in the moment as he wondered if Derek truly wanted another in his bed.

Stiles had only one leg covered by the blankets when the door opened. He looked at Derek, watching the older man enter the room with ease despite his intoxication.

Derek closed the door louder than he meant to. “Whoops,” he said a little loudly. He turned to look at Stiles. “Did I wake you?” He tried to whisper—unsuccessfully.

“No,” Stiles gently shook his head. “No, you didn’t.”

“Oh, good,” Derek added, moving to sit on the foot of the bed.

Stiles watched Derek’s back muscles move beneath his shirt, seeing the way he stretched and curled to prepare for bed. He could never truthfully deny what his grandmother and Lydia had said—Derek was handsome. And he wasn’t a fool—he knew Derek did not have to look far for the warmth of another’s body.

“You can have a mistress,” Stiles suddenly blurted out.

Derek’s movements paused before he turned his body to look at Stiles.

“I wouldn’t blame you for that,” Stiles softly added, turning his attention to look down at his hands twisting at the fabric of the blanket.

“What brought this on?” Derek questioned, his body laxing some.

Stiles shrugged in unsuccessful nonchalance. “You’re very popular here,” he started. “There aren’t spies trying to tear apart our marriage here either. You could be free to … to have a mistress.”

Derek arched an eyebrow at Stiles. “Do you want a mistress?”

“What?” Stiles incredulously asked in shocked surprise, looking up at Derek as if he was insane for proposing such a thing. “No, that’s not what I meant by—”

“You sounded pretty sure that I wanted one,” Derek countered.

“You’re the king,” Stiles answered. “You are allowed such pleasures.”

Derek’s brow creased with unhappiness. “I don’t want one,” he stated. “Besides, we’re married.”

Stiles stared at Derek as the older man continued to shed his clothes completely. A small blush crept up on Stiles’ cheeks when he saw Derek’s nude body. He had tried to avoid looking at Derek when he was caring for him, but this was different—Derek was consciously baring himself now.

Derek appeared unbothered about his nudity, slowly retrieving one of his night shirts.

It was the first time Stiles had seen Derek’s completely bared body.

Scars cut across his back, the one across his shoulder blade still a fresh shade of light pink, as if the attack in Flea Bottom happened only a week ago. His skin was back to its healthy, tan tone, nothing like the sickly pale he had been when the poison tore through him.

Derek was still in the shape of a warrior, despite his time as king.

Derek pulled his nightshirt on, moving to crawl across the bed. He was slow in his actions, though still graceful despite his intoxication. He reclined beside Stiles, making his way under the heavy blankets.

“That girl who was talking with you earlier … She likes you,” Stiles softly admitted through the silence lingering in the room.

Derek turned his head to look at Stiles.

Stiles forced himself to look at Derek. “I told you that I’m not a fool,” he explained. “We were never intended to marry before the rebellion. We’ve only recently become somewhat intimate … and … if she still harbors feelings—”

“That is her mistake, then,” Derek answered, moving to prop his body up on his pillows. “She is a friend—that is all she has ever been to me.”

Stiles shook his head. “Forget it,” he uttered, slipping down the bed in order to force sleep to come. He was surprised when Derek grabbed his shoulder, turning him over onto his back. He stared up at Derek hovering over him.

Derek’s eyes were greener this night than they had been earlier. Something changing in his expression as he looked down at Stiles. “We’re an odd pair, most of the time,” he started. “I’ve no talent for words, and you tend to speak all of them.”

Stiles released a soft huff. He knew he couldn’t argue that.

“But for the past year, the only thing I’ve wanted was to make this work,” Derek finally explained. He reached his free hand up to gently brush a few stray strands of Stiles’ hair from his forehead. His touch was gentle, almost as if he was unsure Stiles would allow him such a gesture.

“So do I,” Stiles softly voiced his agreement.

Derek leaned in closer, pressing a hesitant kiss to Stiles’ lips.

Stiles kissed back, open to Derek’s comfort. He reached his hand up to touch Derek’s cheek, an encouragement.

Derek’s arm curled underneath Stiles’ body, lifting Stiles up into his embrace. He pressed a trail of kisses along Stiles’ cheek, his face pressing down into the curve of Stiles’ neck. He mouthed at Stiles’ throat, his teeth gently nipping at and sucking on the skin.

Stiles breathily moaned as he gripped at Derek’s shoulders. He was vulnerable. And it excited Stiles, to be free from the fear of being forced against his will.

“The room is spinning,” Derek partially mumbled against Stiles’ throat.

Stiles released a soft laugh. “It looks okay to me,” he teased as he ran his fingers through Derek’s hair.

A soft moan vibrated from Derek’s chest. “Don’t,” he almost whined. “I’m going to fall asleep.”

Stiles laughed again. “Then sleep,” he instructed. “We can explore each other’s bodies tomorrow,” he offered, his thoughts drifting to what that promise could be. His fingers continued to massage Derek’s scalp with great care.

Derek laxed into Stiles’ embrace, his warm body enveloping Stiles better than any fur blanket could. It was like sleeping next to a warm flame, without the risk of burning.

Stiles relaxed into the bed as Derek used him for a pillow. He let Derek burrow down as they shuffled their limbs until both were comfortable. He kept running his fingers through Derek’s hair, even as sleep started to shut his eyes. For the first time, he wasn’t afraid to fall asleep.

~*~

Derek mushed his face into the bedding, turning his head away from the light trying to come in through the window. He grumbled some, turning onto his side as he tried to find the warm body he thought he fell asleep with. He peered one eye open when he realized there was no one in bed with him.

Derek tried to remember what happened, wondering if he imagined coming back upstairs to find Stiles awake in bed. He was still uncertain they had talked.

In King’s Landing, they had pretended to share intimate moments, even pressing fond kisses to each other’s lips—all with no affection behind them. This was the first time it felt like more than a desperate plea to fill some order.

The door yawned awake, forcing Derek to turn in order to see who entered.

Derek winced at the sharp throb in his head, hating himself for drinking too much last night. He bit out a pained curse as he grabbed a pillow to cover his head in mild shame.

“Good afternoon,  _ your Majesty _ ,” Stiles’ voice teased.

“Surely it’s not,” Derek partially groaned.

“Unfortunately, it is,” Stiles uttered with a smirk.

Derek peered out from where he had his head buried beneath pillows.

Stiles was standing next to the bed, a goblet in his hand. He stood in front of the window, the light haloing his form as he glowed against the darkness of the room itself. He smiled down at Derek, an amused smirk pulling at his lips.

“You mock me,” Derek groaned.

“No, I’m here to nurse you back to health,” Stiles replied as he moved to sit on the edge of the bed.

“You’ve done that once already,” Derek replied as he moved to recline on his back. He let his head lay against the bed without a pillow, his gaze focusing on Stiles.

“I’m pretty good at it, I guess,” Stiles answered as he offered the goblet in his hand.

Derek started to sit up, wincing at the return of his throbbing headache. “It’s been awhile since I’ve drank all night,” he concluded. “I think I’m too old for it now,” he added as he took the goblet from Stiles, propping himself up on his other arm. He looked down at the contents of the goblet.

“You’re not going to want to know what’s in that,” Stiles stated with laughter in his voice.

“If it’s anything like I remember, I’m not going to enjoy drinking it,” Derek sighed. He took a large gulp of the concoction, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to swallow.

Stiles smiled as he watched Derek grimace at the rest of it. “Your father said it works quickly,” he offered in explanation for how he came upon the drink.

“It does, thankfully,” Derek answered. “As long as I don’t throw it up,” he added in afterthought.

Stiles leaned back on the bed, his torso stretched as he propped himself up. “Now that celebration is over, I’m guessing you won’t have to act too kingly.”

“You mean being a drunken fool isn’t kingly?”

“Depends what you do as a drunken fool,” Stiles commented.

Derek looked up at Stiles.

Stiles felt Derek looking at him, turning his gaze towards Derek’s.

“Did I cross a line last night?” Derek finally asked.

Stiles smiled at Derek. He moved with a slow precision as he started to crawl across the bed, his arms resting on either side of Derek’s hips. “Only if this is crossing a line today,” he answered as he closed the gap between their lips. He gently pressed a chaste kiss to Derek’s lips, a question if it was what Derek still wanted too.

Derek’s free hand moved to cup Stiles’ face as he drew him in close. He opened his mouth into their kiss.

Stiles pushed forward, crawling the rest of the way across the bed until he was straddling Derek’s lap. He held Derek’s face in the palms of his hands, continuing to share a passionate kiss.

Derek wrapped his arm around Stiles’ waist, drawing him in close as he reached his other hand out to set the goblet on the nightstand beside them. Part of him knew he hadn’t secured it when he released the goblet, uncaring as he focused his attention on Stiles. Headache be damned.

Stiles couldn’t help but smile when he heard the goblet clatter to the floor.

His fingers were uncoordinated as he tried to unlace Derek’s shirt, his thoughts preoccupied with what Derek’s tongue was doing to his mouth. He faintly laughed when Derek’s fingers snagged at the laces to undo them faster. He leaned back from their kiss to help Derek remove his shirt, both of them coming back together quickly as they continued their kiss.

Stiles reached down for his trousers, desperate to get them undone. "I've never—" he breathed into their kiss, his hand gripping Derek's shoulder tightly. He pressed a chaste, unsure kiss against Derek's lips, closing his eyes as his cheeks reddened with embarrassment.

"I've never been with anyone before," Stiles softly confessed.

Derek frowned some, his brow crinkling. "I have," he softly answered, appearing ashamed of such a detail.

Stiles tried to smile light heartedly. "At least one of us will know what to do," he tried to joke.

Derek brushed his fingers through the hair at the base of Stiles' neck. "That's unlikely," he offered. "It was uncoordinated, at best. And over quickly." He was glad to hear Stiles' soft laugh.

"Was it a tryst?" Stiles asked, turning his attention towards Derek's chest, his fingertips tracing the scar that ran along Derek's clavicle.

"A desperate attempt to feel something," Derek truthfully answered. "It was just before I rode South to meet your father," he explained. "She was a friend."

Stiles frowned. "Not the woman from last night—"

"No," Derek easily put Stiles' fears to bed. "No, she's married to a River lord now," he stated.

Stiles looked up at Derek. "To be left lamenting her one night with the future King of Westeros," he replied.

"It was nothing to miss," Derek answered. He thoughtfully tucked a few strands of Stiles' hair behind his ear, his eyes roaming Stiles' face as he watched him. "I thought I would die in the war," he finally confessed when he saw the uncertainty in Stiles' eyes. "I never thought I'd have this," he added, lifting Stiles' hand to his lips in order to place a kiss to his wedding band.

Stiles drew Derek back into a kiss, something warm blossoming in his chest.

~*~

The door suddenly slammed open as two arguing voices erupted into the room.

“Stiles—” A young voice whined before silencing.

“Emma, get out!” Derek snapped at his sister, yanking the blanket up to make sure he and Stiles were covered completely.

“But we wanted Stiles to—”

“Out!” Derek bellowed.

Stiles silently clung to Derek, unable to think of an appropriate response to give a child who just walked in on them.

“What are you doing to Stiles?” Emmett’s voice suddenly demanded. “Get off him!”

“Emmett, I’m fine,” Stiles piped up leaning his head around Derek’s shoulder as they maneuvered under the blanket to separate.

Derek rolled to the side, his torso still leaning over Stiles to hide what the blankets couldn’t.

A series of footsteps rushed into the room, a breathless maid suddenly emerging to take hold of both Emmett and Emma’s arms. “Your Majesties, I am so sorry!”

“It’s alright,” Stiles answered her, waving his hand from behind Derek as he hid his blushing face from sight.

“But we wanted to talk to Stiles, Sally—” Emma whined as the door shut to the room.

Stiles collapsed against the bed, pressing his hands over his face in embarrassment.

Derek released a heavy breath.

A laugh suddenly bubbled up from Stiles’ chest.

Derek turned his attention towards Stiles. “This isn’t funny,” he countered when Stiles snorted out a louder laugh.

“Yes, it is,” Stiles laughed with a smile, dropping his hands from his face to look at Derek. “We have the worst luck, and the worst timing,” he replied. “It’s fortuna.”

“It’s not funny that my six year old brother and sister just walked in on us,” Derek curtly uttered.

“It’s a good thing you weren't distracted enough to grab the blanket then,” Stiles remarked with a smirk.

Derek rolled his eyes as he pulled Stiles in closer, resuming their kiss once more.

Stiles hummed into their kiss when Derek spread his legs apart to make room for himself. He released a sharp moan when Derek's fingers pressed into him. "Derek," Stiles breathily sighed when he felt the head of Derek's cock breaching him.

A sharp knock on the door interrupted them.

“For fuck’s sake,” Derek angrily grumbled as he sat up some, the movement pressing him deeper.

Stiles laid limply against the bed, his hand running over Derek’s chest, a lazy gesture that begged to commit Derek to memory. He drew in a steady breath, able to feel Derek in him. He always marveled at Derek’s feats of strength, never considering what it would be like to actually touch Derek—to have him under his hands. He never imagined that he’d regret wasting all those free nights they could have spent together.

“Your Majesty,” one of the guard’s voices announced through the door. “Your father, Lord Hale, has asked to meet with you.”

“I’ll be there in a moment,” Derek barked back at the guard.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” the guard answered.

Stiles snorted when he heard the clank of armor. “I think he just saluted the door.”

Derek huffed out a small chuckle before tenderly kissing Stiles again.

Their kiss was slow, deliberate in its length before they parted.

“Tonight,” Derek promised with another kiss to Stiles’ lips. “I wish to explore your body thoroughly.”

Stiles leaned up, gently nipping Derek’s bottom lip. “If only I can return the favor,” he promised in return. He smiled to himself when Derek cursed in annoyance at having to vacate the bed.

~*~

"I wanted to ask that you pardon Cora," Nathan explained when Derek took a seat next to him. He was looking out at the weirwood tree.

Derek followed his father's gaze, looking at the old weirwood tree. He frowned at the tree, knowing it had been part of his mother's religion long before she married his father. He remembered Laura praying in front of the tree before she left for King's Landing.

"Has she asked for forgiveness?" Derek pressed.

"We're meant to have a few important guests tomorrow," Nathan explained, looking at his son. "There will be suitors here for her. It's her chance to find someone."

Derek shook his head. "Sounds like something Cora would hate," he replied.

"Please, Derek," Nathan tiredly sighed. "I will tell her to apologize, and to mean it, if you'll allow her to attend tonight."

Derek was silent as he turned back to look at the tree. "Alright," he said. "I can't believe this is what you sent a guard to find me for."

Nathan snorted out a laugh. "I wasn't about to interrupt you and your husband."

Derek glared at his father, annoyed when the older man laughed again.

~*~

Stiles was amazed when Fenra came to sit beside him, taking in the direwolf's large frame. He made a soft noise when Fenra turned her body to lean against his legs. Even with sitting on the bench, Stiles was barely taller than Fenra was now.

Fenra was looking out over the courtyard, acting as if she would normally sit pressed against Stiles' side.

Stiles hesitated, abortively reaching a hand out before taking it back. He decided to act bravely, and hope for the best outcome. He pushes his hand into Fenra’s fur.

Fenra tilted her head back to look at Stiles before resting her head on his lap. She leaned her back into Stiles, accepting his gesture.

Stiles smiled, scratching his fingers through Fenra’s fur in what he hoped was a comfort. He marveled as her head took up most of his lap, knowing she was a marvel even before witnessing her this up close.

“I see someone has made a friend,” Derek’s voice uttered.

Stiles looked up to see Derek approaching the bench. He smiled at his husband before looking down at Fenra. “She’s not as scary right now.”

“I meant she made a friend,” Derek replied as he moved to crouch beside Fenra. He reached his hands up, scratching her chin before petting down her neck. He looked at Stiles, smirking when he saw the look of bemusement on his husband’s face.

“Maybe she knows you like me now,” Stiles countered.

“Yes, like you,” Derek scoffed.

Fenra yawned, moving to press her face into Derek’s chest. She seemed appeased with the attention before she decided to walk off.

Derek stood, moving from his crouched position to lean in and steal a kiss from Stiles.

Stiles welcomed the gesture, kissing Derek back as he reached a hand up to cup the back of Derek’s neck. “Are you busy for the rest of the day?” He asked against Derek’s lips.

Derek leaned his hands against the back of the bench, his arms bracketing Stiles safely between them. He made a pondering sound. “Depends what you are thinking.”

Stiles smiled. “You could show me around,” he replied. “I still haven’t seen everything Winterfell has to offer.”

“That sounds boring,” Derek joked.

Stiles laughed at that. “Your childhood was boring then?”

“More like filled with stuffy people too concerned with meddling in my life,” Derek countered.

“So exactly the same as today,” Stiles answered. He accepted Derek’s kiss as a response, leaning in to the intimacy they were sharing. He heard the sound of leather smacking against Derek’s leg before feeling the small object hitting his own legs. He pulled back from Derek, looking down at the object that had hit him—a small winter glove.

Derek moved into an upright stance, turning his head to look at the owner of the glove.

Emmett glared at Derek, huffing loudly as he waited for his brother’s answer.

Derek blinked a few times, confused with the turn of events. He looked down at his brother’s small winter glove laying in the mud. He had barely felt the leather strike his thigh before turning to see that Emmett was standing before him, glove then tossed to the ground.

“Emmett,” Stiles spoke in a soft tone as he slid off his spot on the bench, moving to stand beside Derek.

“You have to answer a challenge,” Emmett stubbornly shouted at Derek as he ignored Stiles saying his name. “Even a King must!”

Stiles looked from Emmett to Derek.

“Emmett, I’m not going to duel with you,” Derek finally explained to his brother.

Emmett’s expression twisted up in anger. “Then you’re a coward,” he forcefully stated, clearly on the brink of tears. “And— and you have to renounce your claim on Stiles’ heart!”

Realization dawned on Stiles’ face.

“Emmett,” Stiles sweetly uttered his name as he moved to kneel beside him, uncaring of the frozen mud that could stain his robes. “I am Derek’s spouse,” he explained to Emmett. “We were married before the gods. Our courting is over.”

Emmett shook his head. “He still has to answer a challenge,” he argued as he looked at Stiles. “He doesn’t deserve you— you’re too good.”

Derek tried to school his expression, wondering what Emmett must have thought of him to say such a thing. He knew his brother had a crush on Stiles for a while now, even if he didn’t realize it had gotten this far.

“That’s unkind, Emmett,” Stiles’ sweetness turned stern. “Derek has been good to me.”

Emmett drew in a sharp breath. “But—” he stopped his protest, angrily turning his glare to the ground.

“You’re right,” Derek stated, surprising both Stiles and Emmett. “I don’t deserve him.”

Stiles reached a hand for Derek, moving to stand beside him once more.

“Being King doesn’t mean I deserve Stiles for my spouse,” Derek explained. “But we’ve chosen each other.”

Emmett’s brow furrowed. He released a hurtful huff of breath, turning and running back into the main hall, forgetting his glove.

Derek closed his eyes, brushing his hand over his forehead as he turned away from the main hall to pace some.

Stiles grabbed Derek’s arm, pulling Derek back towards him. “He’s six.”

“He’s right,” Derek huffed, refusing to look at Stiles.

Stiles moved in front of Derek, wrapping his arms around Derek’s waist as he stilled him from pacing. “You believe I’m too good for you?” He questioned.

“You know you are,” Derek replied, his hands moving to caress Stiles’ shoulders and arms.

“I don’t know that,” Stiles answered. “I’ve had many men—and women—try to claim me as theirs. But I’ve chosen to be with you.” He pressed a delicate kiss to Derek’s lips. “You must be worthy of me if I chose you.”

“But you didn’t choose me, remember?” Derek sorrowfully reminded Stiles.

Stiles frowned at Derek's words. "I would not wish to share my bed with you if I did not choose you."

Derek was about to answer when one of the stable boys came rushing towards them.

“Your Majesties,” the young boy started, completely out of breath from his running. “His Lord Hale has arrived,” he explained.

Derek looked perplexed at the young man. “I didn’t realize my father left?”

“Your Master of Spies, Your Majesty,” the stable boy blundered.

Stiles furrowed his brow as he looked at the young man. “We had no word he was coming,” he stated.

“Apologies, Your Majesty, but he sent no word,” the stable boy kept his gaze downcast to avoid looking for too long at either of them.

“Thank you,” Stiles softly stated, looking at Derek once more. “He’s supposed to be with my father,” he softly started, his stomach twisting with fear that something happened in the Capital.

“Don’t let your mind wander,” Derek suddenly stated, tightening his grip on Stiles. “We’ll talk to him and see what is happening before we jump to conclusions.”

Stiles weakly nodded in agreement.

~*~

“Rumors have spread that your marriage hasn’t been consummated,” Peter simply stated, with little greeting as he decided to get directly to the point.

“That’s not new,” Derek remarked, tightening his hold on Stiles’ hand for fear that he’d pull away. He was relieved when Stiles squeezed his hand back.

Peter’s features were crossed. “It’s more than that,” he warily stated. He sighed, turning to the satchel he had brought with him from the carriage. He pulled out several letters, tossing them down onto the table in front of Stiles and Derek. “Gerard convinced nearly every noble family of import to demand a show of … affection.”

Derek’s brow creased. “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Stiles grimaced. “A bedding ceremony,” he mumbled in disgust.

“I told you over a dozen times, they can fuck off,” Derek snapped at Peter.

“Derek, you have to—”

“Why is everyone so obsessed with seeing our sex life exposed for them?” Derek demanded, angered that his uncle was even going to press the subject.

“Because Gerard knows you won’t force it,” Stiles offered, looking at Derek. “If we don’t give them proof, there is seed for doubt. And then Gerard can convince the other houses that the Hale house will not be continuing the throne’s line, so who should be the successor?”

Stiles released his hold on Derek to reach for one of the many letters. He turned one of them around in his hands to see the sigil on the wax seal. “I’m guessing some of them asked to be a part of the ceremony,” he muttered in disgust.

“Gerard would have to be—to silence him,” Peter quickly explained before Derek could cut him off.

“And if I’m with child before a ceremony can be held?” Stiles asked, turning to look at Peter.

Derek looked surprised by Stiles question.

Peter’s eyebrows raised. “By Derek’s reaction, I’m guessing it’s impossible for any child you’re carrying now to be his.”

“I’m not with child now,” Stiles glared at Peter.

“That’s not what the kingdoms believe,” Peter countered.

Stiles tightened his hold on the letter, crumpling it some.

“Watch it, uncle,” Derek started.

“No, I think it is time we had this conversation,” Peter remarked, still watching Stiles.

“Go ahead,” Stiles goaded Peter. “Say what it is you have to say—everyone else does.”

“You’ve been pregnant before,” Peter stated.

Stiles scoffed. “I think I would know.”

“You got rid of it when the prince died,” Peter stated.

Stiles’ features suddenly split into too many emotions. “That’s a filthy lie,” he seethed.

“Is it?” Peter remarked.

“Peter, stop it,” Derek warned.

“We need to know,” Peter snapped at Derek. “Because you can’t be bothered to do your job as king and secure an heir.”

“Because he won’t rape me,” Stiles loudly snapped at Peter. “Because he won’t touch me without my consent, unlike both father and son Targaryen who tried a number of times to fuck me.”

Derek took Stiles’ hand in his own, pulling him close in an attempt to calm him. “I don’t care what lies Gerard spreads. We’re not giving them a bedding ceremony,” he lowly uttered as he looked at his uncle. “I think John would agree with us on this.”

“Then we need to prepare for war,” Peter answered. “Sometimes you need to do unspeakable, degrading things to keep a crown and your life.”

“And other times, you fight,” Derek remarked. He waited for Peter to leave, taking ahold of the forgotten letters. He felt Stiles’ eyes on him as he moved towards the fireplace, tossing the parchment into the flames.

Derek looked at Stiles when he felt the younger man pressed against his side in order to toss the last letter into the fire. He could see how regressed Stiles was. He gently took Stiles’ hand with care, gaining his husband’s attention. “I have something I want to show you.”

~*~

Stiles turned around, slowly spinning his body to observe the godswood completely. He remembered the way his father talked about the heart tree at the center of Winterfell’s godswood. He remembered how his mother dedicated countless hours to caring for Storm End’s godswood, having heard of its decay after her death. He wasn’t shocked that the Hales were able to keep their weirwood alive and prospering, completely amazed at seeing the rare tree in person.

He wished he could share this with his mother.

Stiles looked up at the sky, seeing snowflakes fall from above. He reached a gloved hand out to catch one of them. He frowned as he watched the snowflake disappear once it hit the leather covering his hand.

“We can head back inside,” Derek noted, his gaze still on Stiles.

Stiles turned to look at Derek. He offered a small smile before looking back at the snowfall. “I haven’t seen snow before,” he admitted.

“It’s overrated,” Derek replied.

Stiles lightly laughed. “Perhaps to someone who has seen it almost every year,” he reasoned.

“I’ve seen how cruel it can be,” Derek answered.

Stiles thoughtfully hummed. “It is very cold,” he commented as he watched his breath billow out in a white puff before disappearing. He moved closer to the tree, bending down to look at the red flowers covering the ground. He plucked one of the flowers, lifting it up to his nose to smell the fragrance. Sickly sweet, just as Laura described.

“Too cold for a southern boy?” Derek questioned.

Stiles turned towards Derek, taking a step closer with a smile on his lips. “Perhaps,” he slyly started.

“How can we fix that?” Derek asked, his hands moving to encircle Stiles’ waist.

Stiles offered the flower up to Derek. “You could keep your Consort warm,” he replied with a smile.

Derek took the flower from Stiles’ hand, moving to place it behind Stiles’ ear, allowing it to brush through his short hair. He pulled Stiles into a kiss, wrapping his arms around Stiles in a warming embrace.

Stiles pliantly fell into Derek’s arms, opening up into their kiss.

~*~

Derek kissed Stiles deeply, his hands cradling Stiles’ head as he angled their lips together in a kiss. The kisses swallowed down both their moans as Derek flexed his hips again, moving in and out of Stiles at a balanced pace.

Stiles clung to Derek, his hands grasping at the small of Derek’s back as his thighs tightened around Derek’s hips. He rolled his hips to meet Derek’s, gasping when Derek pressed against the perfect spot inside him. “Please, there,” he breathily begged against Derek’s lips.

Derek drew Stiles even closer, lifting Stiles up into an easier angle.

“Gods!” Stiles gasped, his back arching as Derek moved faster.

Stiles’ toes curled tightly as his legs trembled, his body winding up like a music box ready to play. His orgasm pulled through his body when Derek’s teeth scraped his nipple.

Stiles gasped and panted through his own aftershocks, his shaking hands moving to Derek’s hair. His hips attempted to move in small, abortive thrusts as he tried to get Derek off as well.

Derek buried his face in the crook of Stiles’ throat, his eyes shut tightly as he did his best to keep from overstimulating Stiles. “I’m close,” he spoke against the warmth of Stiles’ skin, his words begging a question he was embarrassed to ask.

Stiles seemed to answer his unspoken question as he wrapped his legs around Derek’s waist. “I want you to,” he spoke, words softer than a whisper. “I want you to,” he repeated.

Stiles yelped when Derek picked him up off the bed, a look of surprise on his face until Derek settled him fully in his lap. His eyes rolled back as the new position pushed Derek even further inside him. “You’re going to make me … again,” he weakly uttered as he wrapped his arms around Derek’s neck.

Stiles babbled some prayer into Derek’s shoulder, his teeth clamping down into the bend of Derek’s neck as a second orgasm tore through him this time. His limbs twitched, his throat hoarse from his shout despite it being muffled by his mouth on Derek’s skin. His whole body sagged as the tension left him, as Derek stilled against him.

Derek’s grip on Stiles was looser, barely holding a balance to them both not falling off the bed. He allowed his body to slouch some, placing a kiss to Stiles’ swollen lips.

Stiles whimpered as the movement jostled Derek inside him. “No, stay like this,” he almost pleaded, his hands gripping Derek’s shoulders when he realized Derek was situating them in order to separate.

Derek arched an eyebrow at Stiles, though his movements ceased.

“It’s supposed to help,” Stiles reasoned, placing a quick kiss to Derek’s lips. “With conceiving,” he shyly mumbled.

Derek kissed Stiles deeply, pulling a pleased moan from him. “We’re going to have many opportunities,” he replied. “If we haven’t already succeeded.”

Stiles couldn’t hide the traces of a blush on his cheeks as he smiled.

“Such as in the morning,” Derek added.

Stiles softly laughed into their kisses.

~*~

Stiles stirred some when he heard the door opening, a little surprised to see one of the maids entering. He pulled the blanket up under his arm even tighter as he laid his head back against Derek’s chest. He closed his eyes, determined to get a little more sleep before the sun rose all the way.

The maid lingered for a moment when she saw both Stiles and Derek in bed. She shook herself out of her stupor, as if she had to recall herself. She made her way out the door, one last glimpse confirming that she was indeed seeing the King and Consort in bed together—naked.

“The maids are going to be gossiping,” Stiles yawned against Derek’s chest.

Derek responded by tightening his arm wrapped around Stiles. “I’m too exhausted to care,” he partially grumbled. “Someone kept me up late last night.”

Stiles softly snorted as he hugged Derek’s chest, using him for a pillow. “I could keep you in bed longer this morning, too,” he offered.

Derek hummed in agreement as he ran his fingers through Stiles’ hair, his motions slow and at ease as he let Stiles remain as a starfish across his torso. “I supposed we couldn’t have timed our nudity better if we wanted to start the gossip mill turning.”

Stiles was quiet as he pulled the fur up higher.

“Perhaps that will make Peter happy enough that he’ll drop his incessant prattling,” Derek mumbled to himself.

Stiles drew in a breath before suddenly stating, “You’re not the only person to see me naked.” Peter’s words earlier eating away at him all throughout dinner and the evening. Even when they retired to their room.

When Derek had kissed him, Stiles felt some form of guilt settling in his stomach. When Derek helped him undress, Derek’s calloused hands running along his skin causing goosebumps to blossom in their wake, it felt tainted by the phantom memory of Viseryn’s fingers that still lingered for Stiles.

Derek opened his eyes, staring up at the ceiling as he tried to place Stiles’ statement with something. “That doesn’t matter to me,” he offered, knowing that there were some who viewed Stiles as a harlot, though he chose to acknowledge the truth instead of rumors—Stiles was a gifted actor.

“It matters to me,” Stiles weakly argued, curling his body into Derek’s side.

Derek turned his body some, halting when he realized that Stiles was clinging to him, as if to keep him from moving.

Stiles listened to Derek’s heart beating beneath his chest, his head slowly rising and falling with Derek’s breathing. He reached his arm across Derek, holding him tighter as he tried to keep his stomach from churning with the memories of what happened.

“Veryn made me bathe in front of him, once,” Stiles stated. He swallowed down the lump in his throat as he recalled the fear he felt that night. “He made me stand there as he dried me off.” He was terrified when Veryn made him get out of the bath, his whole body trembling as the prince patted him dry, trying to ignore the way he was being fondled through the towel. “It was right before the battle of the ford,” he added as an afterthought. “He said he’d visit me the night he got back—that he’d  _ let  _ me give him a welcome befitting a hero returning to the Capital.”

Derek’s jaw tightened, clamping down to suppress the curse on his tongue. He now wished he had done more than just crushing Veryn’s chest.

“I cried tears of joy when the messenger brought word of your victory,” Stiles continued. “Everyone thought I was mourning a lover instead of celebrating a freedom.”

“I’m sorry, Stiles—”

“And then Viseryn,” Stiles abruptly cut off Derek’s words, needing to get it all out. He’d never tell Derek if he didn’t say it now. “He … ”

Derek tightened his hold on Stiles, curling his arm more securely around Stiles’ waist.

“He had two of his Kingsguard tear my clothes off,” Stiles released a shaky breath. “He had them hold me—restrain my arms as he …  _ inspected me _ .” He closed his eyes against the sting of tears. “I’ll never forget his eyes—the way he looked at me. I’ll never forget what it felt like when those knights ripped my clothes.” He forced himself to look up at Derek. “Parrish was the one that interrupted. That’s the only reason I favored him—for saving me.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Stiles,” Derek quickly stated. “I regret that I ever made you feel that you had to.”

Stiles pushed forward, kissing Derek softly. “I care for you,” he admitted aloud as he pulled back from their kiss. “More than I thought I ever could. I don’t want you to think I’m going behind your back—that I have lovers.”

“Even if you did, I would respect your choice,” Derek replied, reaching a hand out to touch Stiles’ cheek. “I care for you, too. Despite knowing you couldn’t … ”

“I just told you I did,” Stiles countered as he looked at Derek with a furrowed brow. “I said it first, actually,” he stated with a small smile.

Derek faintly laughed at that. “I suppose you did.” He brushed his thumb across the curve of Stiles’ cheek.

“We can make this work, can’t we?” Stiles earnestly asked.

Derek found himself nodding. “I want to.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Cora's pettiness level comes to an interesting high and low. I apologize if some people end up really disliking her, she flowed through this story the most easiest while writing.
> 
> Warning, Stiles suffers from a panic attack and PTSD.
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter!
> 
>  **Reading Disclaimer** : This story has a complete arc. I have been writing this story since 2017, and I am not asking for criticism on any part of it. There may be parts I forgot to elaborate on. If you have questions about a section or concerns about content, you are always welcome to post those and I'll do my best to answer them. I am tired of having comments on my AO3 works where people try to tell me I am writing something incorrectly. These stories I write are complete fiction, with sometimes a foothold in truth; my writing is the truth within the story.

“You were a bit harsh,” Talia stated as she offered a goblet of wine to Peter.

Peter took the offered drink. He looked down at the goblet, sighing some before looking at Talia. “Says the woman who was prepared to fillet her son’s husband not that long ago.”

Talia frowned some. “I was wrong,” she admitted as she took the seat next to Peter. “You’re meant to help them.”

“I’m trying,” Peter firmly stated, exasperated. “People seem to forget that I’m not the devil for trying to help them keep their lives.”

Talia drank some of her wine before replying, “Why are you the devil?”

“Because I pushed to know the truth about Stiles and his time in King’s Landing before the rebellion,” Peter answered.

Talia was quiet for a moment as she observed her brother. “Tell me you didn’t,” she harshly sighed as she sat up, already knowing what Peter’s answer would be. “What am I saying, of course you did.”

“Excuse me for knowing how the game works,” Peter remarked.

“Stiles is innocent of all those rumors,” Talia replied.

Peter looked at Talia. “You finally think that?”

Talia narrowed her eyes at Peter. “I’ve finally had a chance to speak with him. You know I’m good at reading people.”

Peter hummed in agreement.

“I mean it,” Talia added.

Peter looked at Talia. “I know,” he answered. “For the first time, his mask has cracked a bit. And I saw it in his eyes when he denied what Gerard’s been saying.”

Talia leaned back in her chair. “You’ve been pushing just to prove that?”

“I’m the Master of Whispers,” Peter reasoned. “I need to know the truth, so I can counter the lies. And sometimes that makes me the most hated man in the room.”

“Do you believe Stiles?”

“I never didn’t believe him,” Peter replied. “But I want him to know the truth of the world we’re in, and know that it’s better to have a friendly face push in a painful way than to have an enemy know.”

~*~

Stiles paused when he saw Emma spinning in circles in the hallway. He smiled as he watched her dancing with an imaginary partner.

Emma stopped when she saw Stiles. She smiled as she ran over to him. She grabbed for Stiles’ hands. “Dance with me!”

Stiles laughed some as he accepted Emma’s dance. He moved with ease, swishing from side to side before spinning her in a circle.

“Do you like my dress?” Emma asked as she looked down at her skirt spinning out. “I get to wear it for tonight!”

“You look very lovely, Emma,” Stiles commented with a soft smile. He was glad to find that some of Derek’s siblings were warming to him, even if Cora refused to.

Emma’s smile beamed up at Stiles as she twirled in her dress. “Derek sent the fabric to mama this last spring.”

“That was very kind of him,” Stiles replied. “You look the befitting image of a lady.”

Emma giggled, quickly moving to hug Stiles. “I asked mama if I could wear it since tonight is special!”

Stiles smiled down at Emma, gently brushing his hand through Emma’s hair. He was fond of Derek’s siblings, finding himself caring for them more than he thought he could. “That was nice of you.”

“I wanted to look nice,” Emma replied. She took Stiles’ hand, pulling him after her and towards the main hall. “I can’t wait to dance! You and Derek will be dancing too, right?”

“Of course,” Stiles offered as he held Emma’s hand. His stomach twisted with guilt as he thought of Laura, realizing that she never got to see her siblings grow up—she never met Nicholas. He felt guilty for being here when she couldn’t be.

Emma tightened her hand on Stiles’ when she saw Cora. She was determined to walk with Stiles into the ballroom.

Stiles hesitated when he saw Cora, knowing that she was lingering for a reason. He wondered if Derek accepted Cora’s apology. “Hello, Cora,” he chose to greet her. He wasn’t surprised when she didn’t answer him.

“You don’t have to be mean, Cora,” Emma huffed out angrily as she glared at her.

“Emma,” Stiles gently said her name to gain her attention. “It’s alright.”

Emma stuck her tongue out at Cora. “Stiles is family now.”

“You can’t replace Laura,” Cora sharply snapped at Stiles.

Stiles mutely stared at Cora as Emma pulled back from him to look at her sister. “I’m not … I know that, and I’m not trying to.”

“You shouldn’t even be here,” Cora pressed. “Everyone knows Derek doesn’t love you.”

“Cora!” Emma whined at her.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stiles replied instead of dignifying her insult with an answer.

“Yes, you do,” Cora angrily pressed. “You’re incapable of being loved—just a glorified whore.”

Stiles remembered Derek saying those words to him on their wedding night. He could still feel the twisting in his stomach and the tingling in his palm from smacking Derek. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” he stated in an even tone, finally turning to walk by Cora. He had to leave, knowing that addressing her childish behavior wasn’t going to change her opinion of him.

“You wore pretty clothes, and laughed and danced while everyone else died,” Cora loudly yelled at him, daring to follow after him. “You did all those things for the Mad King!”

“You’re a selfish, spoiled girl who knows nothing about that,” Stiles sharply snapped at her, whirling around to confront her. “So just shut your stupid mouth!”

Cora’s features twisted in anger. Rage blinded her when she grabbed at Stiles before he could walk away, her hands tearing at his clothes. She tore at his sleeves, the seams of Stiles’ vest giving away at one shoulder as she pulled with her whole strength.

All Stiles could hear was the ripping of fabric, feeling the material being yanked from his body— _again_.

“You only deserve tatters,” Cora spat, hatred in her words.

Stiles’ hands trembled as he fell against the wall, his mind racing with memories—dark memories he tried to scrub away. He was scared, reaching for his one weapon that he had. His hands clamped down on his rose belt, his palm and fingers being carelessly pierced by the golden thorns. His breathing was labored as he pressed a hand against the wall, knowing he was staining it with blood even as his mind grew dizzy with panic.

“Derek!” Emma yelled at the top of her lungs when she saw the blood on Stiles’ clothes.

There was a loud bang, the sudden rushing of people.

Emma was crying loud, wet sobs when Talia picked her up to comfort her.

Derek shoved by Cora’s motionless form to grab ahold of Stiles. He pulled him back against his chest, his hands moving to grip Stiles’ tightly. “Stiles, breathe,” he softly spoke against Stiles’ ear.

Stiles’ hands tightened on the belt. “I— I can’t—” He sucked in a sharp breath.

“It’s okay,” Derek uttered, using his strength to nearly pry Stiles’ hands off the belt. “You’re safe,” he softly stated in a calming voice—it was a voice Stiles had heard him using to whisper to his horse.

Stiles would have laughed at that, were it another time.

“Please let go of the belt, Stiles,” Derek nearly pleaded, easing Stiles back into his embrace. “He’s dead, Stiles. He’s gone, and he can’t hurt you anymore,” he quietly reassured him. “My love,”—Stiles sobbed at the affectionate name— “Let me take care of you,” he added in an even softer voice, words no louder than a whisper.

Stiles’ grip slipped from the belt. He let Derek fold his arms over his chest in a calming manner.

“Call for a healer,” Derek ordered at the others who gathered, expecting one of them to follow his instruction.

“Derek,” Talia started.

“Just do it, mother,” Derek forcefully instructed, turning to look at her.

Talia nodded, accepting the seriousness in Derek’s expression.

~*~

“Will he be alright?” Nathan asked as the healer exited the room.

“I’ve sedated him, for now,” the old man answered. “Rest will help him to recover.”

“What happened?” Talia inquired, her gaze looking at Derek for a moment. She wondered if her son knew what ailed Stiles.

“I’ve seen something like this before,” the healer replied. “In warriors from the battlefield, mostly.”

“He’s a lord from King’s Landing,” Cora commented. “He hasn’t seen a battlefield—are you sure it’s not something else?”

The healer frowned at Cora’s words. “When someone suffers an event so traumatic, it becomes a coping mechanism to hide it.”

“The Mad King had his clothes torn off,” Derek finally stated, silencing the others completely. He turned to look at them. “Viseryn tried to rape him, when we reached King’s Landing.” He picked up the belt Stiles had been wearing, turning it in his hands. “This was the only weapon he had on him at the time.”

“Ah,” the healer softly uttered. “I believe that explains his reaction.”

Derek turned a critical glare on Cora, having deduced what happened even before Emma cried the whole thing out, seeing the tears in Stiles’ fine clothing.

“He should be comfortable for now, but I would recommend someone staying with him, just in case he wakes up and is confused about it all,” the healer instructed.

"Thank you," Talia replied. "We'll make sure he's comfortable."

Derek waited for the healer to leave before he turned on Cora. “You selfish brat,” he started, his anger evident.

Cora didn’t argue with Derek, her gaze dropping to the ground.

“I forgave you for your attitude because father and mother asked me to,” Derek continued. “And you attacked my husband.”

Cora started when she heard Derek’s words. “I didn't attack—”

“Shut up,” Derek demanded.

“Derek,” Talia softly started.

Derek angrily looked at Talia. “Mother—”

“I’ll handle this,” Talia forcefully stated. “You stay with Stiles.” She looked at Cora, gesturing towards the door. “We have a lot to discuss, young lady.”

Derek hesitated before going to Stiles’ bedside.

~*~

Talia calmly waited for Cora to close the door behind her, moving to sit at one of the tables beside the rows of shelves. She sat, arranging her skirts to sit correctly as she watched Cora drag her feet.

Cora sat in the chair across from her mother, her eyes looking elsewhere.

Talia waited in silence.

Cora finally looked up at her mother, knowing the older woman wouldn’t start without her undivided attention. It was a punishment of its own to look Talia Hale in the eyes to see her dissatisfaction for yourself.

“What you did was uncalled for,” Talia finally stated in an even tone. She paused to let it sink in. “And your brother was right,” she added. “We’ve coddled you.”

Cora remained silent, knowing there was no way she could excuse herself.

“What you did was petty,” Talia continued, refusing to break eye contact with her daughter. “Something a jealous child dreams of doing to another. But you weren’t squabbling with some other Northern highborn—you attacked your brother’s husband, and our King Consort.”

Cora closed her eyes for a moment before swallowing the lump in her throat. She quickly looked away from her mother when she opened them again.

Talia grabbed Cora’s chin in a firm grip, unrelentingly forcing her to look back at her. “I saw you in the hallway, when we found you. You wouldn’t look at Stiles, and I can only hope it was because you felt guilt for what you did.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Cora forcefully uttered.

“Didn’t mean to hurt him, or get caught?” Talia sharply demanded of her daughter.

“I suppose both,” Cora weakly answered, her voice a little wobbly.

“If you were anyone else, your brother would be justified in having you publicly thrashed for what happened, though I’m sure he would want to keep things private for Stiles’ sake,” Talia warned. “Part of me thinks I should let Derek decide how to proceed.” She released her hold on Cora’s chin, sitting back in the chair as she observed her daughter. “You were never like this,” she softly confessed, a disdain in her voice for finally admitting the truth she didn’t want to believe.

Cora turned her head, brushing her tears away with the back of her hand. “You never knew what I was like,” she suddenly countered.

Talia’s expression remained unflinching, waiting for Cora to voice her grievances.

“You never wanted to know what I was like,” Cora corrected herself, looking back at her mother. “I can’t even remember that much about Laura,” she suddenly stated. “But I know what she meant to you and father. The sheer … _resentment_ you both had for anyone that would even speak about her in terms of the past.”

Talia’s brow began to furrow when she saw the tears in Cora’s eyes.

“She’s dead because of him,” Cora echoed the words she heard so often stated in Winterfell’s halls. “Isn’t that what you said for years? Laura died because the Mad King wanted her dead for trying to take him away.”

“We were wrong in our grief,” Talia evenly answered.

Cora bitterly laughed with contempt in her heart. “I knew every time you looked at me, you hated the fact that she was the one who died.”

Talia’s features softened some. “Oh, Cora,” she gently uttered. “I failed you, more than I ever thought I could.”

Cora looked away from her mother. “Neglected, mother, not failed.”

“Haven’t I failed you if you find yourself needing to hurt others?”

Cora remained silent for a moment. “I don’t know, anymore. I don’t want to hurt him … I don’t know who I want to hurt—or if I even want to hurt anyone.”

“You need to apologize for what you did,” Talia gently pressed.

“I know,” Cora admitted. “I didn't mean to ...” She shook her head. “I _want_ to apologize.”

~*~

“There are some Northern lords we need to talk to,” Peter uttered. “Since we’ve canceled the party, we have little choice but to ride out and meet them. Lord Morland was kind enough to offer his halls.” He was silent for a moment, watching Derek in silence before he continued. “If we don’t get ahead of the rumors, and the fact that Stiles is now indisposed—”

“Gerard will pounce,” Derek begrudgingly finished Peter’s thought. He moved to the bed’s edge, leaning over to place a kiss to Stiles’ forehead. He tenderly brushed his hand through Stiles’ hair, pausing when Stiles made a soft noise before leaning into his touch.

“It will only take a night,” Peter offered.

“Leave most of the guards here,” Derek instructed Peter as he pulled away from Stiles. He paused when he saw Emmett peering into the room from behind the door jamb.

Emmett startled when he realized Derek caught him. His hands tightened into fists as he stood his ground, positive he was about to be reprimanded.

Derek walked by Peter, moving to stand in front of his brother. He knelt in front of Emmett, putting his hand on his shoulder. “You’re worried about Stiles,” he knowingly stated.

Emmett looked up at Derek as he nodded, his eyes ultimately drifting towards Stiles.

“Can you do something for me?” Derek softly asked his brother.

Emmett finally looked away from Stiles, looking at Derek instead. He firmly nodded his head again.

“Can you look after Stiles for me?” Derek requested. “Keep him company—keep him safe.”

Emmett drew in a sharp breath as he eagerly nodded his head once more. “I’ll protect him,” he confidently stated.

Derek softly smiled at that. “I knew you would,” he answered. He fondly ruffled Emmett’s hair in response.

Emmett smacked at Derek’s hand to get him to stop, quickly fixing the part of his hair that Derek messed up. He moved into the room, taking cautious steps before finally reaching the edge of the bed. He sat in the chair he had seen Derek sitting in earlier, his eyes transfixed on Stiles.

~*~

“Yes, yes they do disapprove of that. That’s why I’ll only look.”

“Your Majesty, please!” Stiles begged when another pair of hands seized him.

Hands stronger than his own tore at his fine clothing, ripping the silk stitching from his body, exposing Stiles to the King. He desperately grabbed at his tattered clothes, trying to maintain even a fraction of modesty. He crossed his arms over his chest, holding the clothes to drape over the front of his body, his back completely exposed as the two Kingsguard tore the seams of his trousers.

It was humiliating, degrading Stiles to nothing more than an object for the King to lustfully slobber over.

Stiles couldn’t stop the sob that broke through the silence in the Sept when the knights grabbed his arms, prying them away from his chest. His clothes fell to the ground, fluttering into a discarded pile. His breathing was heavy, his vision blurry from the tears as he tried to pull free from the two men that held him in place for the King to inspect. His face reddened the longer he was exposed—the longer the King stared at him.

Only one silk stocking managed to remain in place, the trim ending just below his knee as the other pooled around his ankle. He was nude except for that fine cloth.

The Mad King stared, finally seeing after years of lusting. The paleness of Stiles’ skin was exquisite, small moles cascading down his side to adorn the sharp line of his hips. A trail of hair ran from Stiles’ navel down to his cock, hair clearly groomed and maintained from years of cosmetic pampering. Stiles wasn’t sickly or weak like most high-borns, his muscles defined in an elegant way that reserved his masculinity for those willing to look beyond the mask of feminine fragility he projected.

“Just a look,” the King repeated to himself. “Only a look,” he mumbled as he reached a hand out to touch Stiles. His fingertips grazed Stiles’ navel, tracing the curve before trying to go lower.

Stiles tensed, pushing his body back into the guards that held him. “Please,” he barely spoke, his voice caught in his throat. “Mercy, Your Majesty.”

The King blinked several times as he looked at Stiles, noticing Stiles’ tears for the first time. “No, don’t cry—don’t,” he ordered when Stiles didn’t stop the tears. “I had to—I had to see that you weren’t lying to me. You’re more under those clothes—you’re everything I dreamed you’d be.”

The doors to the room yawned open, signaling the arrival of another. Stiles tried one last time to pull out of the grip of the Kingsguards. His balance wobbled some when the men did not lessen their grips.

“Your Majesty, the Hales—” the young man halted when he saw the scene before him. He didn’t know what to think, witnessing two of his fellow knights restraining a naked and defenseless young man for the King. He looked away from Stiles, catching only the way the King stared at the young lord and no one else. “The rebels are approaching, Your Majesty,” he firmly stated.

The King finally looked at the young Kingsguard, as if he had just noticed his presence. “Ser Parrish,” he almost mumbled in recognition. He looked back to Stiles. “Cover him,” he quickly ordered the Kingsguard, as if he was suddenly coming to his senses. “What are you waiting for? Cover him—now.”

The Kingsguard released Stiles, watching as Stiles gathered his tattered clothes from the ground.

Stiles pulled his clothes back on, trying to hold them over his body as best as possible. He held back his tears as he trembled through his actions, his clothes ruined and unable to cover his nudity properly.

Parrish pulled his cloak from the clasps bolted to his armor, taking the necessary steps towards Stiles. He placed the cloak around Stiles’ shoulders, allowing the young lord to wrap it around himself in clutched handfuls.

“There, no harm,” the King uttered, reaching a hand out to touch Stiles’ face.

Stiles schooled his expression, forcing himself to stay still as the King touched him.

“We need orders, Your Majesty,” Parrish pressed.

“Orders,” the King muttered, still busying himself with the fascination of Stiles’ soft skin beneath his touch.

“May I retire to my room, my King?” Stiles softly asked, hoping he would be allowed this reprieve.

The King seemed puzzled by what to answer. “I would like you with me when I burn them,” he finally answered. “But for now, rest.”

Stiles nodded in acceptance, wishing he could hurry away from the King.

“Parrish,” the King sharply addressed the knight. “Make sure he makes it to his rooms safely.”

Parrish nodded, bowing his head in respect to the King. He waited until he got Stiles back to his room in the Keep. He paused outside Stiles’ door, waiting for an answer—a command to leave his presence should he not want the company.

Stiles kept the cloak wrapped around him as he stood in the middle of his room, completely at a loss for what he should do next.

“My Lord,” Parrish started to address Stiles. He dared to step a foot into his room, hesitating before entering fully. He moved closer to Stiles when the young lord still didn’t acknowledge him. “My Lord,” he addressed Stiles again. “The Hale army is fast approaching. There is word that your father is with them.”

Stiles turned to look at Parrish finally. “How long until the rebels reach us?”

“Only a few hours,” Parrish informed Stiles.

Stiles nodded. “He’ll want me back with him,” he faintly admitted.

“The King will have to be with advisors for now—”

“Stay,” Stiles suddenly stated, turning to look at Parrish. He noticed that Parrish had closed the door behind him when he entered. “Will you do me a favor?”

Parrish looked at Stiles. “What is in my limits to give you, I will,” he answered.

“Would you …” Stiles’ closed his eyes, steeling his nerves. He had lived the past six years in fear of the Mad King—of the man slipping into Stiles’ room in the midst of night to hold him down and take what a King wanted. “Would you lay with me? As a lover would.”

Parrish’s eyes widened in surprise at Stiles’ forwardness. “My lord—”

“Stiles,” Stiles quickly corrected him. “Please, call me Stiles,” he sighed, sick of pretending to be the bubbly little noble he was painted as.

“Stiles,” Parrish softly stated his name. “Why would you want that? Especially after what just happened.”

Stiles tightened his hold on Parrish’s cloak. “Because of what happened,” he answered. He looked at Parrish. “I’ve never been afforded a lover—nor taught what to expect. The Mad King doesn’t care if he loses King’s Landing to the rebels. He’ll burn the entire city down, _after_ he has me in this life.” He shook his head. “I don’t want that to be my first and only experience.”

Parrish’s features softened some, a look of pity falling over him. He had known Stiles from the Court’s point of view, and he had never thought someone as quick witted and flirtatious as Stiles could be a virgin. But the young lord standing before him now made it impossible to argue against.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles laughed, tears collected in his eyes. “That is such a cruel thing for me to ask you. I’m asking the same of you as is expected of me by the Mad King.”

“I’m not …” Parrish stopped, taking a step towards Stiles. He reached a hand out, his knuckle brushing away a stray tear. “I’m not hesitating because of disinterest,” he admitted, hoping that would ease Stiles’ feelings of guilt. “I’m hesitating because of the situation.”

Stiles sniffled some, turning his head away from Parrish.

“You’re not in a position to consent to such a thing, Stiles,” Parrish elaborated.

Stiles managed to calm his breathing, focusing on how to proceed. “This is likely the only thing I will ever consent to,” he answered.

Parrish took the last step forward, pressing into Stiles’ space before placing a gentle kiss to Stiles’ lips.

Stiles wilted into Parrish’s embrace, accepting what would likely be his first and last true kiss.

~*~

Stiles woke to a painful ache pounding in his head. He blinked a few times at the soft glow of the candles and fire burning in the fireplace. He released a faint sigh when he felt the cuts along his palm before feeling the bandages. He looked down at his hands resting on his stomach, surprised when he saw Emmett sitting at his bedside. He faintly smiled when Emmett startled at seeing him awake.

“Are you okay?” Emmett excitedly asked, leaping up further onto the bed.

Stiles barely nodded. “How could I not be alright with my knight here?”

Emmett blushed. “We were scared,” he admitted. “Derek asked me to look after you.”

“Look after me?” Stiles asked. “Where did Derek go?”

“He had to talk to the Northern lords,” Emmett explained as he deflated against the bed. “We canceled the party,” he yawned. “Mama yelled at Cora, and Cora cried.”

Stiles frowned, part of him wishing he made Cora cry instead. He sighed, closing his eyes. “I need some water,” he started.

“I’ll get it!” Emmett quickly stated as he moved away from the bed, excitedly running to the door before stopping.

Stiles looked at Emmett.

“Derek told me to stay with you,” Emmett explained as he looked at Stiles.

Stiles patted the side of the bed. “You can stay, the water can wait,” he offered.

Emmett skipped over to the bed, plopping down next to Stiles.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get to have the party,” Stiles offered as he looked at Emmett.

Emmett shrugged. “I’m not good at dancing like Emma.”

“I would have liked a dance,” Stiles offered.

Emmett looked at Stiles in surprise. “Will you be able to dance tomorrow?”

Stiles smiled at that. “I will do my best.”

The bedroom door suddenly groaned open, announcing someone’s arrival.

Stiles turned to look at the person, his brow furrowing when he saw that it was Cora.

Emmett looked at Cora, his features growing angry. “You’re not supposed to be here!” He yelled at her. “Derek told you he didn’t want you anywhere near Stiles!”

“Emmett,” Stiles softly uttered his name. “Could you go get me that glass of water? Cora and I have to talk.”

Emmett’s features sunk, opening his mouth to protest.

“Please,” Stiles gently prompted.

Emmett reluctantly nodded as he slipped off of the bed. He trudged by Cora, pausing by his sister to give her a glare that expressed his feelings poignantly. “If you hurt Stiles again, I’ll never forgive you.” Without another word, he marched out of the room, hurrying down the steps so he could get back quicker.

Stiles looked at Cora, arching his eyebrow at her. “You’re unusually quiet for getting yelled at.”

Cora crossed her arms over her chest, a frown covering her features. “I didn’t know,” she choicely uttered.

“Didn’t know what?” Stiles countered before quickly asking, “Why are you even here?”

“I wanted to apologize.”

“To my sleeping face? I’m sure that would have been much easier for you.”

Cora’s expression pinched as she looked at Stiles. “I didn’t know you had these nightmares.”

A deprecating laugh bubbled up out of Stiles’ chest. “Nightmares,” he muttered. He looked at Cora. “I’d say you don’t know what nightmares are.”

“I came to apologize, not argue.”

Stiles turned his head to look away from her. “Have you heard of wildfire?”

Cora seemed unsure of what Stiles was getting at. “Yes,” she reluctantly answered.

“The Mad King loved it,” Stiles uttered. “He loved making me watch him as he used it,” he added. “He wanted to burn everyone.”

Cora’s features scrunched up, knowing Laura had been one of those burned in the Capital.

“I begged him, for a long time, not to use it,” Stiles explained. He scoffed at the thought, “I think he liked it when I begged. But it only worked for a while.” He looked up at Cora. “So I stopped begging and tried to distract him. He’d forget about it if I danced … if I sang.” He shook his head. “If I kept his eyes on me, he wouldn’t hurt anyone else,” he weakly noted, his eyes filling with tears. “I’m not the monster you want me to be.”

Cora quickly brushed the tears in her eyes away, looking away from Stiles. “I know it doesn’t change anything, but I’m sorry.”

Stiles stared at her. “You’re right, it doesn’t change anything,” he answered. “But if you mean it, then there is hope you’ll be different in the future.”

Emmett was out of breath when he came back into the room, a glass of water in his hands. He hurried over to Stiles, ignoring Cora completely as he kicked the door shut with his heel. “I told Sally, she said she was going to tell Mama that you’re awake now.”

Stiles offered a small smile to Emmett.

“Sally?” Cora suddenly questioned as she looked at Emmett. “She left.”

“I think I know Sally when I see her, Cora,” Emmett angrily uttered as he gave the glass to Stiles.

Stiles took the glass, drinking a portion of the water.

“She went to visit her family,” Cora countered.

The sound of an armored body hitting the floor outside startled Cora into turning and looking at the closed door. She took a step back when she saw the blood pooling beneath the door.

Stiles saw Cora’s confused and frightened expression. He hastily put the glass on the nightstand, pushing the blankets off. “Emmett, get back,” he stated as he pushed Emmett into the farthest corner from the door, standing on unsteady legs.

Cora stared at the man who came through the door, not recognizing him.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” the man said to Cora.

Cora took a calculated step away from the man when she saw the blood covered dagger in his hand.

~*~

Derek remained silent as he listened to the other lords. He made a point to let them speak, knowing that Peter had a point when it came to negotiating.

“There have been some interesting things said,” one of the older lords—Lord Morland expressed concern as he looked at Derek.

Derek offered a passing glance at the man.

Peter took the parchment from Lord Morland, his brows furrowing up in distaste for the words written. “You know these are lies, correct?” He tiredly asked.

“We hoped they were,” Lord Morland replied.

“The wildfire caches have been dealt with as much as possible,” Peter explained as he paced around the table, dropping the parchment in front of Derek as he continued to move. “Some of them have been built into the frame of the city structure. If Gerard intends to take King’s Landing, it would be him that uses those caches. Thankfully, there would be minimal physical damage, but I imagine he’d use it as an opportunity to say it was the King that burned the city.”

Derek picked up the parchment, his eyes dashing across the words. “Do you think I would idly sit by while that happened?” He broke the silence that followed his uncle’s words. He surveyed the room, looking at the other lords and ladies. “Gerard will not take King’s Landing, nor will he take the throne to put you all under his boot.”

“And the rumors about your husband?” A lady questioned. “What do you say to those rumors?”

“Rumors are hard to track,” Derek tersely replied. “Which ones are the Argents spreading again? That Stiles is a witch, or that he’s had a number of unwanted babies purged?”

Some of the lords looked uncomfortable with Derek directly addressing what had been spoken behind closed doors.

“The one about him helping Viseryn,” a young woman spoke from her place at the edge of the table. She appeared to have a sour disposition towards that rumor in particular.

Derek looked at her, recognizing her as one of the last with the Reyes name—Lady Erica Reyes.

“There were many who spoke against the Mad King, but he was there for the whole thing,” another lord replied.

Derek’s brow pinched in annoyance. He was ready to purge the whole kingdom of any moron who believed Stiles was a willing participant. “We’re here to speak of the impending war that is to come because of the Argents’ treachery, and you want to trade stories like a group of fish wives,” he lowly uttered, his annoyance evident. “I’ll say it once, and won’t dignify it again with a second response,” he firmly stated, his gaze surveying those at the table. “Stiles was a victim of the Mad King, just like the rest. Only he suffered at the man’s hands more than anyone in his attempts to save others.”

“Many notable lords and ladies had been killed when the Mad King realized rebellion was imminent—”

“His King Consort isn’t to blame for that,” Erica snapped at the lord who spoke. “Viseryn killed my father for his own reasons.” She looked at Derek. “But he didn’t burn him because Mieczysław begged him not to. My mother watched, as over five hundred people in the throne room stood silent, and a child begged a mad man to spare a life. And it wasn’t the first or last time he did it.” She shook her head. “The only guilty thing Mieczysław did was believe he could save everyone. We need to look at the real threat, not obsessing over the Mad King.”

Derek waited for the lords and ladies to voice themselves in agreement or opposition before bowing his head to Erica, grateful that someone finally saw the truth. “As far as I am concerned, Gerard has been trying to cause rifts throughout the realm in hopes it will tople me. He knows my ties with the North are strong, so he’s targeting you all in particular.”

“He’s an idiot for thinking the North would ever side against its own,” Lord Morland stated.

Peter suddenly grabbed Derek by the shoulder, acting as subtle as possible as he leaned over to whisper in Derek’s ear. “A messenger just arrived from Winterfell, please stay calm,” he evenly stated, pausing before he finished the message. “Someone attacked Stiles.”

Derek jerked back from Peter to look at him, confusion on his face as he struggled with understanding if he heard him correctly. He stood up suddenly, moving around his chair without another word as he headed for the stables.

~*~

“You’re really alright?” Talia asked Stiles as she remained sitting on the edge of the bed, her hand resting along the curve of Stiles’ shoulders in a comforting manner.

Stiles nodded his head as he tightened his hold on Emmett, glad to have him tucked under his arm. He had been terrified when it happened, unsure if he could protect Emmett. Despite it all, he had not expected Cora to defend them. He looked at Cora, watching as the healer finished wrapping up her hand.

“Ow,” Cora sharply punctuated when the healer tightened the wrappings too much. She scowled at him before letting him finish. She realized it was dangerous to grab the dagger when the man slashed at her, reacting on instinct to keep him from attacking any of them. She held the blade in one hand as she tightened her hold on the man’s wrist, the blade cutting down into her palm.

“I’m glad you’re all okay,” Talia concluded as she stood, her hand moving to linger on the back of Emmett’s head. She faintly smiled when he reached out for her.

Stiles lifted his arm, allowing Talia to take hold of Emmett, glad to see the boy unharmed. He looked at Fenra laying on the bed, finding it strangely comforting that she was calmly resting on the bed as if she hadn’t just torn a person’s throat out.

Fenra rested her head on her paws, nestled on the bed beside Stiles as if she had nowhere else to be. Her head perked up suddenly, a soft bark rumbling in her chest as she looked expectantly at the door.

Of all things, Stiles did not expect Derek to come rushing through the door.

Derek’s furs were covered in snow, his cheeks flushed from the change in temperature. His eyes were near wild with uncertainty, not knowing what he was going to come home to.

“They reached you before the storm peaked,” Talia uttered in relief as she moved to stand.

A snow storm was raging outside now, making it next to impossible to send out or receive a raven. Stiles hadn’t expected Derek back tonight, but he was glad to see him.

Derek moved into the room, pausing when he saw the crouched servant was mopping up blood staining the floorboards. He looked at the healer, realizing that it was Cora being bandaged. “What happened?” He asked, hoping someone would explain what the bumbling guard could not. He would admit it wasn’t very kingly to have left Lord Morland’s halls in the middle of a brewing snow storm, promptly forgetting to check if Peter was following him.

“An assassin,” Talia offered. She was capable of telling no one wanted to repeat it. It was a serious accusation. “Your father is speaking with several of the guards,” she continued. “Trying to piece together what happened.”

“Are you alright?” Derek asked Stiles.

Stiles looked up at Derek. He nodded his head, hoping it was enough.

“And you?” Derek asked Cora when he saw the extent of the bandages.

“Yes,” Cora softly answered her brother, looking down at her hand as she wiggled her fingers. “It was reactionary,” she added as an afterthought.

“Thank you, Cora,” Stiles finally stated. He had expected the surprised look Cora gave him. “If you hadn’t been here … who knows what would have happened.”

Cora hesitated before nodding.

Derek turned to look at the person walking through the door behind him.

“You know, it’s not very nice to ride off and leave your uncle behind,” Peter huffed, looking about the room. He took a steady step out of the way when the servant carrying bloodied washcloths and bucket passed by him. “What happened?”

“Someone attacked Stiles, and we’re trying to figure it out,” Talia tiredly stated. “I’m sure Stiles would like to get some rest.” She pointedly looked at Peter, waiting for him to agree with her statement.

Peter pursed his lips some. “We should probably discuss—”

“Sally was the only other person who knew Stiles was awake,” Cora finally stated, her brow furrowed. “I’m guessing they were planning on attacking Stiles before he woke up—they felt rushed.”

Stiles ran his hand through Fenra’s fur, happy when she shuffled to lean her weight into his leg. He would rather be preoccupied with anything else besides discussing who wanted him dead.

“If we find Sally, we can piece it together more,” Cora concluded when no one said anything. “Though I think we can all guess an Argent is behind it.

“Great,” Peter announced as he turned to leave the room. He reached a hand out, grabbing Cora by her wrist as he pulled her after him. “We need to discuss everything that happened before planning.”

Cora begrudgingly followed Peter, her nose scrunched in dislike at being stuck in a room with a handful of boorish advisors.

Derek watched them leave, hesitating before looking back at Stiles.

“You should stay with Stiles,” Talia stated, making the decision for Derek. She could tell he wanted to stay, likely upset with himself for being away. “Take whatever time you need, I’ll make sure Peter doesn’t do anything rash.”

Derek nodded, his gaze dropping to look at Fenra as she stood to jump off the bed. He reached his hand down to brush over her back as she passed by him.

“I know I said I was always against the wolves in the house, but I think I’ve changed my mind now,” Talia calmly stated as she adjusted her hold on Emmett. She hesitated for a moment before she leaned over and placed a gentle kiss to Stiles’ head, just along the crown of his hair. She brushed her hand along Stiles’ hair. “Get some rest.”

Stiles stared up at Talia, some strange lump in his chest suddenly tightening before unraveling rapidly. It had been a long time since he thought about his mother, and he never would have believed Lady Talia Hale would remind him of her. He silently nodded, watching Talia leave the room before shutting the door after herself.

Derek moved to sit beside Stiles, gently taking Stiles’ hand in his own. “Are you okay?”

Stiles offered another faint nod.

Derek looked down at the bandages wrapped around Stiles’ hands. “I shouldn’t have left you.”

“You didn’t know someone was going to attack me,” Stiles quickly stated to counter Derek. “You were protecting us both by going,” he added as an afterthought.

Derek reached his hand out to cup Stiles’ cheek in his palm. “I should have trusted my gut.”

Stiles placed his hand over Derek’s, leaning into his tender gesture. “Well, you should stay now,” he stated with a smile.

“Oh,” Derek uttered with a smile of his own. “I suppose I could be persuaded.”

“Persuaded,” Stiles faintly laughed. He reached his hands out to pull at the ties and clasps of the furs and cloak covering Derek’s shoulders. “I have great powers of persuasion when it comes to my husband staying in bed,” he stated before pressing a lingering kiss to Derek’s lips.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, for timeline references, takes place over roughly 8 months.
> 
> Side note: the song that is sung in this chapter is a chopped up part of a song from HBO's Catherine series. I believe it is from Episode 2; the scene mimics that one.

Stiles turned in a circle, observing the garden around him. He smiled, fond that his memory of the garden was accurate. He remembered the times he spent with his mother among the lavish flowers as his father trained wouldbe knights down in the courtyard.

High Garden wasn’t known for their army, flourishing in backroom politics and trade deals. It was a godsend when John married Claudia, uniting Storm’s End with High Garden was one of the most successful merging of houses in Westeros.

Stiles loved High Garden, and it pained him to know he’d never live within these walls again. He wondered if someday, when he and Derek were old and their children ruled King’s Landing, perhaps they would retire to live out the remainder of days in High Garden’s beauty. He surprised himself to think of such things.

“Your mind is elsewhere,” Olynna stated as she watched Stiles carefully. She half expected a more excited disposition.

Stiles looked from the roses to his grandmother. “Thoughts are lingering,” he offered.

Olynna pursed her lips as she considered Stiles’ words. “Did they discover the assassin’s origins?”

Stiles sighed, closing his eyes as he leaned his head back against his chair. “The maid they wanted to speak with was found in the stables with her throat slit,” he recalled how guilty Derek looked when he told Stiles they found nothing. He wanted nothing more than to comfort Derek in that moment—there were no loose ends when it came to assassinations. It was expected, though that excuse did nothing to settle Stiles’ stomach.

“We all know it was an Argent,” Olynna spoke the truth.

“The King cannot accuse another highborn family of assassination without proof,” Stiles recited what he knew was true, opening his eyes to look at Olynna. “Not unless he wants people whispering that he is the Mad King.”

Olynna conceded, taking a drink of her tea. She allowed the silence to marinate between them, debating if she should address it. “You haven’t sent word in a while.”

Stiles looked away from his grandmother. “I don’t need to,” he uttered.

Olynna set her tea down, observing her grandson carefully. “You’ve consummated your marriage then,” she stated, as if it was written all over Stiles’ face.

“Yes,” Stiles confirmed.

“How many times?”

“Grandmother,” Stiles tiredly uttered as a plea to not discuss such things.

“When was the last time? You need to keep track,” Olynna stated as if it was a matter of greatest importance.

“On the way here,” Stiles choicely stated, huffing out an annoyed breath.

Stiles remembered having to stop by the Ruby Ford, the water having risen since their last crossing. He was stretching his legs, eyes on Derek as he discussed something with Peter, likely to know when they would meet up with John before arriving at High Garden. He acted coy when Derek asked him if something was wrong, merely pulling Derek back towards the carriage with a forceful grip on the furs of Derek’s cloak.

Stiles had been the one to pull the laces of Derek’s trousers, opening into their kiss. A moan punched out of his chest when Derek turned him, pressing his arms against the side of the carriage for cushioned support. He whimpered when Derek’s arm snaked around the front of his torso, Derek’s large hand encasing his throat. He leaned into Derek’s touch, closing his eyes with pleasure as calloused fingers caressed the soft span of his throat. The heat of Derek’s body plastered against his back was more seductive than the now familiar press of Derek’s cock inside him.

It was rough, a desperate grapple, both unsure who needed it more.

Derek didn’t say anything about the ford once they reached High Garden.

“And I don’t have to keep track, when my husband is the only person I’m having sex with,” Stiles pointedly added, not wishing to discuss whatever his grandmother was getting at.

Stiles looked at his grandmother, shocked to find her quietly looking at him. “What?”

“You love him,” Olynna replied. “Have you fallen for your own act?”

Stiles’ brow furrowed in anger. “It’s not an act,” he vehemently denied.

Olynna didn’t look surprised by Stiles’ words. “You said yourself—”

“I didn’t know,” Stiles forcefully stated in a low hiss. “I didn’t know I was capable of loving someone.”

Olynna didn’t acknowledge Stiles’ admission as she asked, “And what about him? Is he capable?”

Stiles didn’t answer her.

“You don’t know?” Olynna incredulously asked, laughing at the idea that Stiles wouldn’t know. “You’re very good at reading people, Stiles. It’s one of the things I’m most proud of. And you can tell in people’s eyes if they love someone or something. Are you just not looking?”

Stiles stood, pushing his chair back from the table. “I’m a coward,” he uttered with bitterness in his tone. “Perhaps I don’t want to look and not see it there,” he excused himself, rushing out of the garden as quickly as he could.

~*~

“I can’t say I miss this courtyard,” Derek noted as he looked about the open area. He recalled how many times he had failed a training exercise with more bruises than he could count.

“You were here a summer,” John remarked with a faint smile as he inspected some of the weapon racks. He hadn’t seen High Garden in over eight years, unsure if he would ever call it home again as he did with Claudia. He had planned, right up until the rebellion reached the Capital, to bring Stiles back to High Garden for good.

“A brutal summer,” Derek stated, turning about the courtyard. “I remember a senior guard beat the daylights out of me right here,” he commented as he tapped his foot on the intricately designed floor. “He hated that I was better than him in your remarks.”

“You were better than most of them,” John replied. “You just happened to be younger.”

Derek faintly smiled as he nodded at the memory. He took a few steps, pausing when he saw the covered well. He walked over to the overgrown mound of weeds and ivy wrapped around the metal grating. He aimlessly pulled at the greenery, clearing a better image of the well. He didn’t remember the metal bars covering it. He tapped on the metal, wondering when it had been installed.

“After Stiles fell,” John’s voice answered Derek’s unspoken question. “It seemed the most logical step.”

Derek nodded. “He was watching us train, I remember that.”

“He was watching you,” John corrected Derek.

Derek remembered having been looking at Stiles, smiling at him when he caught the younger boy looking at him. He was as startled as the rest after hearing Stiles yell when his back was turned just a second later.

“I’d never been so glad that Claudia taught him how to swim,” John commented, his own thoughts remembering that day.

Derek remembered being the only volunteer to go down the well, hurriedly tying a rope around his waist as a lifeline as he descended. He took Stiles’ arm in hand, surprised when the younger boy punched him in the face with limbs flailing.

Derek took a step back from the well, turning to observe the courtyard. He paused his motions when he caught sight of Stiles up high on one of the mezzanine’s balconies. He watched as Stiles walked, nearly aimless, as he read a small book in his hands.

~*~

Stiles read through the poem, a smile on his lips when he saw the small ink words his mother has marked in the margins. He nibbled his bottom lip as he read through another poem about the breathlessness of love and the intoxication of desire for that love. He listened to the echo of his footsteps as he paced in the looped mezzanine, lowering the book from his sight as he thought of Derek.

Derek had been gentle in speaking about the assassination attempt. He hid his own worries and concern behind anger and guilt. But he had shown a dedicated need to tend to Stiles, even in the days before they left Winterfell.

Stiles didn’t want tender touches and soft words. He wanted to be held by his husband, a tryst of passion being in the forefront of his wants. He wanted to have a normalcy to their marriage. He had been overwhelmed at first when Derek obliged, scared of his own pleasure in being physically hauled around. He never felt the fearful drop in his stomach when Derek’s hands touched him, knowing that there was no malicious intent beneath Derek’s calluses.

He felt safe under Derek.

Stiles’ footsteps slowed to a stop when he heard the distant sound of a folk song being sung. A soft, fond smile pulled at his lips when he recognized the voice. He drew closer to the singing, his mother’s book hanging loosely from his hand. He leaned against the railing’s bannister when he saw that Derek was sitting, lounging on one of the steps leading up to the mezzanine Stiles inhabited. His gaze watched Derek as he listened to Derek’s voice singing the sweet but unfamiliar folk song—one that sounded reminiscent of the Northern ones Laura had sung.

_ Oh sweet lad _

_ Go down to the green garden _

_ And weave your garlands there _

_ Take me too _

“Am I bothering you?” Derek asked as he unexpectedly cut short his rendition, his gaze looking up at Stiles.

Stiles smiled down at Derek. “No,” he honestly stated. “I’m enjoying it,” he admitted, before playfully jesting, "You could continue if you remember the words."

Derek moved with ease as he stood, singing out the next lines of the song as he ascended the steps closer to Stiles.

Stiles leaned up from the railing, straightening himself as Derek drew into the last step from him.

_ Go down to the swift river _

_ And throw your flowers in _

_ Oh sweet lad _

_ Love me as I do you _

Stiles leaned in to kiss Derek, reluctant to stop his singing despite his desire to share a kiss. He knew it was just a folk song, one from Derek’s childhood more likely than not. But hearing those words sparked a longing in Stiles’ heart.

Derek cradled Stiles’ head in his hands, angling their lips together for an easier kiss.

“Can we go home?” Stiles asked, features nearly pleading.

Derek looked a bit confused by Stiles’ question. “I thought you wanted to spend time here.”

Stiles shook his head a little. “I wanted to see it again,” he admitted, his hands moving to rest on Derek’s hips. “But I think I’m ready to be home.”

Derek brushed his thumb over Stiles’ cheekbone before leaning in once more to kiss him. “We’ll go home,” he spoke the words against Stiles’ lips as a promise.

~*~

Derek woke with a faint grunt of displeasure when the rising sunlight streaming in through the open balcony had traveled to his closed eyes. He turned on his side, putting his back towards the light in an attempt to fall asleep once more. He wasn’t surprised to find he couldn’t turn the entire way, another’s body blocking him from taking full advantage of his large bed.

Derek opened his eyes to see Stiles wrapped up in the twisted sheets, wondering once again how Stiles lodged himself into his side without waking. It happened more frequently once they finally returned to King’s Landing. He shifted his body some, curling around Stiles, amused to know that the younger man would wake in a while to complain about being overheated. He faintly smiled to himself as he fell back asleep.

Stiles had a way of finding himself rolled into Derek’s space and taking it over as of late.

It had been a few weeks since they left Winterfell. Derek would be lying if he said he wasn’t pleased to have Stiles move into his rooms. Stiles kept his bedroom as a spare space, finding himself more than content with inhabiting Derek’s rooms.

Derek was asleep when a hand gently touched his bare shoulder. His arm shot out on instinct, grabbing a tight hold on the person’s tunic before he could even see who they were. He sagged some, the alertness leaving his body when he saw it was Peter.

Peter arched his eyebrows at Derek before pointedly looking down at Derek’s hand on his tunic.

Derek released his hold on Peter, gesturing for him to leave the room with a wave of his hand. He looked down at Stiles, easing himself out from beside him as gently as possible. He kept a fleeting glance on Stiles’ sleeping form as he hastily tied his dressing gown closed around his waist.

Peter was waiting out in the parlor, his gaze turned towards the small fireplace as he watched the fire slowly burn. He was pleased they were back in King’s Landing, knowing that winter was settling in the North. He preferred the warmer weather in the Capital.

“What’s so important?” Derek asked once he entered the room.

Peter held up his hand to display the object in his hand. “A raven came,” he started. He waited for Derek to take the parchment from his hand before turning and looking at his nephew.

Derek’s eyes flickered across the written words, his mouth forming into a grim line. “Is this a fucking joke?” He demanded as he looked up at Peter.

Peter sighed. “I invited him,” he answered.

“You did what?” Derek’s voice rose in anger as he took a step towards Peter.

“I invited Chris, not Gerard,” Peter elaborated as he turned to face Derek. “And if you calm down, you’ll realize it is a good thing Chris is coming here.”

“How is it a good thing that the son of the man trying to murder my husband will be in the Keep?” Derek demanded in a sharp voice.

“Gerard won’t attack Stiles if we have Chris within an arm’s reach,” Peter replied. “It’s also an opportunity to figure out if we can get Chris to usurp his father.”

Derek crumpled the parchment in his hands, angrily pacing instead of giving into his desire to punch his uncle.

“If we can get Chris to claim Casterly Rock, that would deal a large blow to Gerard,” Peter continued to explain, knowing that Derek wouldn’t be silent for long. “We could use him to our advantage by extending an olive branch to him.”

Derek aggressively threw the parchment into the fire as he passed by the fireplace. “You have to be a moron to think Chris would betray his father,” he finally snapped at Peter.

“We need to convince him it is in his own best interest.”

Derek shook his head.

“It’s a good idea.”

Derek and Peter turned to look towards the bedroom.

Stiles stood in the doorway, his dressing gown was buttoned up to his collarbone with his arms tightly crossed in front of his chest.

“Peter has a point,” Stiles continued, a small frown pulling at his lips. “As much as I don’t want an Argent in the Keep, it’s better to invite them than to be invaded by them.”

Peter arched his eyebrows when Derek looked at him. “I can’t say I expected anyone to agree with me.”

Derek heavily sighed, shaking his head. “Don’t ever do something like this again without asking me first.”

“I knew you wouldn’t hear me out, regardless of this being our best chance,” Peter replied. “But I understand your sentiment.”

Derek walked away from Peter, heading back into the bedroom to rejoin Stiles. He paused by the doorway, lingering next to Stiles. “Keep an eye on Chris.”

Peter nodded, “Several.”

Derek closed the door behind him, pausing when he saw Stiles lingering by the bed. He moved over to him, reaching a hand out to touch Stiles’ shoulder.

“Next time wake me up,” Stiles suddenly stated, turning his head to look at Derek. “I know you were letting me sleep, but next time … don’t leave me to wake up without knowing where you are.”

Derek nodded in understanding. “I won’t.”

Stiles nodded. “Okay,” he softly stated, as if he wasn’t sure what to add in response. “I’m on edge as it is, and with an Argent coming here—”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Stiles,” Derek remarked as he stepped in close to Stiles.

Stiles placed a hand on Derek’s arm, a faint smile on his lips. He made a faint hum of pleasure when Derek drew him bodily into a kiss, easing his worries into distant concerns. "You always kiss me so nicely," he admitted.

"Should I not?" Derek quizzically inquired as he dipped his head to kiss along the curve of Stiles' neck.

Stiles exposed more of his throat to Derek, his body relaxing in Derek's supportive arms. “Derek,” he softly spoke his husband’s name, forcing himself to look away when Derek pulled back far enough for them to share a look.

“What’s wrong?” Derek finally asked, his playful demeanor fading when he saw the pensive furrow of Stiles’ brow.

“Nothing,” Stiles hollowly uttered before forcing a convincing smile on his lips. “I’m just worried about your safety is all.” He accepted Derek's kiss, pushing his intrusive thoughts to the back of his mind in hopes they would remain there.

~*~

Stiles walked in on the council scrambling to get a seat close enough to Derek. He looked at the spectacle before him, amused by the pettiness of the men. He was surprised his father allowed them to keep their titles, let alone their position on the Hand’s small council when it became clear of their childishness. He knew that his father had his reasons, likely to weed out the traitors.

Derek looked at Stiles, waiting for his husband to react.

Stiles held eye contact with Derek as he walked to the side of the table, taking hold of the vacant chair. He lifted the chair with ease, walking around the three council members, artfully passing behind Derek to set the chair down on Derek’s right side.

Derek didn’t bother to hide his smile, smugly proud to have such a defiant Consort. He turned his head to look at Stiles.

Stiles settled into the chair, threading his fingers together to place in his lap. He looked at the councilmen, a small smile gracing his lips as he turned his head to look at Derek. “Husband,” he softly stated with a respectful nod.

Derek gently bowed his head to Stiles, offering his hand up to him. He turned his attentions to the council when Stiles threaded their fingers together. He was daring them to say something about Stiles’ actions. He looked to John, looking across the table to his Hand.

John slipped into the chair at the other head of the table. “Are we free to start, your Majesty?”

Derek nodded, his hand making an open gesture for John to begin the meeting.

Hours passed with old men bickering, unable to find an even ground to agree.

Derek sat with his head in his hand, a headache growing with the incompetence of the men. He started when fingers touched his free hand, turning his gaze to observe the person making a move to hold his hand. He knew it was Stiles, though the intimate action surprised him. He supposed it was a repayment for allowing Stiles to be present, knowing that the kings in the past kept their Consorts from the meetings.

Stiles leaned to the side, speaking for Derek to hear. “You know, we don’t have to be here.”

Derek looked at Stiles, bare amusement on his features. “If only.”

Stiles tightened his hold on Derek’s hand, closing his eyes some as he grimaced.

“Are you alright?” Derek asked.

Stiles nodded his head some. “I’m okay, just a bit nauseous.”

“Gentlemen,” John loudly started, catching the other council members off hand. “I believe this is enough for the day. We’ll reconvene next week to go over the issues brought up today. Peter is handling the arrival of Lord Argent later next week, which means we have little else pressing matters.”

Derek looked to John, seeing that the man was as annoyed as he was.

Stiles was grateful for his father’s interruption. He watched the council members depart before looking at his father.

“In the current mood, I think it would be best to hold off on most actions,” John finally stated as he looked at Derek and Stiles. “I think Gerard might have a hold on some of them.”

Derek released a heavy breath. “Could I just dismiss them all?”

Stiles faintly smiled.

“If you wish, I would support you,” John offered.

“Most of King’s Landing would support you,” Peter mused as he looked at Derek. “I’ve been hearing remarkable approval for you both.”

Derek sighed, leaning forward in his seat as he pressed his head into his hands, elbows propped against his knees. “And now we have a snake coming into the palace.”

Stiles stood, his hands moving to Derek’s shoulders. He gently massaged Derek’s muscles.

“I would think about those you could trust who could be appointed,” John explained. “And perhaps we could look into appointing them before Chris arrives.”

Derek looked up at John. “I would appreciate your input,” he replied. He looked up at Stiles. “Yours, too.”

Stiles rubbed his hand across the arch of Derek’s shoulder blades.

Derek stood up, ready to leave the Tower of the Hand.

Stiles stepped to the side, heading around the corner of the table when he suddenly felt lightheaded. He stumbled, hands reaching out to hold onto the table.

“Stiles,” Derek uttered his name in concern as he reached out to steady Stiles.

“I’m okay, just a little … ” Stiles suddenly stopped as he pressed a hand to his diaphragm. He suddenly leaned over the side of the table, vomiting onto the floor.

Derek held Stiles tightly, attempting to keep him safe from falling over.

“I’m fine,” Stiles barely spoke as he put a hand over his mouth. “I need to lay down, I think. That’s all,” he offered when he looked up at his father, seeing the concern on his face. He was about to say something to reassure the other two when he suddenly vomited a second time.

John handed Derek a glass of water. “You’re ill.”

“I don’t feel ill, just nauseous,” Stiles mumbled as he used one of his handkerchiefs to wipe his mouth clean. He accepted the water from Derek, taking a drink.

“Nausea is a form of illness,” Peter remarked as he moved to stand beside Stiles. “You should have a healer look at you.”

“I don’t need people worrying—”

“We’ll worry if you don’t,” John countered.

Stiles looked to Derek for reason, his features softening some when he saw how worried his husband looked.

“Please,” Derek softly prompted.

Stiles sighed, nodding. “I’ll let a healer look at me,” he mumbled in displeasure. “You’re a worry wart,” he remarked to Derek with a playful smile as he cupped Derek's cheek in his hand.

“I only worry about you,” Derek uttered as he pressed a kiss to Stiles’ cheek.

“I’ll walk with you,” Peter offered to Stiles. He looked at Derek as he spoke, “You have to inspect the guards to be assigned to Chris.”

“I’ll go with you,” John offered to Derek. “Let us know when you’re done,” he said to Stiles.

Stiles waved his hand, looking regrettably at the floor as he stepped around the vomit puddle. “I’ll see you at dinner,” he offered instead.

~*~

Stiles walked alongside Peter, his steps slow and torturous as he delayed seeing Deaton as long as possible. “You don’t seem all that worried.”

“Because you’re not ill,” Peter simply uttered as he continued to walk.

“At least you believe me,” Stiles stated. “I feel as if everyone is convinced I’m about to break.”

“You’re in a delicate state, I’ll give them that,” Peter replied, looking at Stiles for the first time. “But you, being about to break? Never.”

Stiles’ brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”

“I suspect you’re about to be told very happy news,” Peter softly stated as he looked back down the hall as they walked.

Stiles was about to question Peter’s cryptic words before he suddenly realized what Peter was referring to. He stopped midstep, halting his movements completely as he thought about it.

Peter paused to look back at Stiles.

Stiles looked up at Peter. “Are you saying I’m … ” He scowled at Peter. “You can’t know that.”

“I’m the Master of Whispers,” Peter simply stated. “I also have a sibling who has mothered six children. It’s not that difficult to tell when someone is expecting.”

Stiles opened his mouth to protest.

“You’ve gained weight,” Peter simply stated.

“That’s none of your damn business,” Stiles sharply countered. He knew he had gained some weight—most of which happened to be resting on his stomach and hips. Derek never said anything, and if Stiles wasn’t mistaken, he’d say Derek enjoyed it.

“You’re nauseous, vomiting at random hours of the day,” Peter continued. “I also distinctly remember Derek having a merchant acquire quail eggs because you suddenly crave them. Cost a small fortune too.”

Stiles’ mouth slowly closed when he realized Peter had too many points for it to be a coincidence.

“And given how often you and Derek have been fucking, I’d say it is more than likely you’re currently with child,” Peter tiredly ended his argument.

“Do you have to be so crass?” Stiles remarked, part of him finding it absurd that people went from knowing nothing to knowing a lot about his sex life.

“You’re the one who had sex with my nephew outside a carriage by the Ruby Ford,” Peter countered. “I’d say you’re finding it liberating to finally be having as much sex as people accused you of having.”

Stiles heavily sighed, knowing Peter had a point. He quickly walked by Peter as he headed for the maester’s rooms, pausing as he turned to look back at Peter. “I want to tell him if I am,” he stated.

Peter fondly smiled at Stiles. “I know,” he uttered. “It’s why I said I’d come with you.”

Stiles looked perplexed by Peter’s words.

“Your secret is safe with me,” Peter elaborated.

~*~

Derek leaned against one of the many columns, eyes watching the various guards going through their routines. He frowned some, realizing that he did not know any of the young men or women. He found himself lost for knowing if any of them had wavering loyalties. He watched John order the guards into going through the motions, remembering his own time spent under John’s tutelage. He turned and looked to his side, realizing that Boyd was standing next to him on guard.

“What do you think?” Derek asked.

Boyd looked at Derek, arching his eyebrow in question. “Not sure I know what you mean, sir.”

“You don’t have to call me that,” Derek replied, looking back at the guards. “You know that.”

Boyd faintly smiled. “If I don’t, you seem to forget you’re a king.”

Derek scoffed. “If only.”

Boyd looked at the guards Derek was watching. “In all honesty, I don’t know many of them, but I think you can’t really go wrong.”

“No liars or schemers?” Derek questioned.

“Do you have reason to worry about that?” Boyd asked in confusion.

“While we were in Winterfell,” Derek started, his brow furrowed as he recalled the raven his mother sent. “A maid who had been loyal to my family for years plotted with an assassin to kill my husband.” He turned and looked at Boyd after a bated breath of silence. “I’m a bit more guarded now.”

Boyd nodded. “In that case, I’d ask you to put me in charge of guarding Lord Argent.”

Derek leaned back against the column as he observed Boyd. “I trust you, but I feel safest with you guarding Stiles.”

“With respect, Derek,” Boyd uttered with a shake of his head. “If I’m guarding the threat, there doesn’t leave room for a threat to take place.”

Derek faintly nodded. “That’s a fair point.”

“Besides, Stiles is constantly by your side lately,” Boyd pointed out. “I think you can handle protecting him better than anyone.”

Derek allowed a silence to fall between them before he finally spoke what was on his mind. “What do you think about the Lord Commander?”

Boyd’s eyebrows raised in curiosity. “I think he’s an idiot.”

Derek laughed along with Boyd. “A mutual feeling,” he commented. He looked at Boyd as he asked, “Would you want to be Lord Commander?”

Boyd looked uncertain. “Are you dismissing your Lord Commander?”

“I’m dismissing my whole council,” Derek admitted. “I need people I trust.”

Boyd looked conflicted for a moment. “If you asked me, I would. You know I would.”

“But do you want to?” Derek pressed.

“To advise you formally instead of the informal conversations we have? There is a minimal difference besides title,” Boyd explained.

“Well, that covers that,” Derek replied. “Which leaves Masters of Ships, Coin, and Laws. No pressure,” he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Is there anyone in the North?” Boyd asked.

Derek paused for a moment, thinking about Boyd’s suggestion. “Perhaps a few,” he answered. “I would do well to appoint a lord or lady from each region.”

“You’d have to consider an Argent,” Boyd answered.

“Perhaps I can lie to Chirs,” Derek jested. “If he’s truly willing to displace his father, perhaps he would be a good consideration.” He looked at Boyd. “You’re already doing well as an advisor.”

“I’ve been your advisor since before the rebellion,” Boyd remarked with a light chuckle.

~*~

Stiles was anxiously awaiting Derek, twisting and tapping his fork against the table. He nibbled at his bottom lip, his leg shaking in anticipation. He quickly stood when he heard the door open, Derek’s and John’s voices traveling as their conversation continued.

“If Lady Reyes agrees, and Lydia is amendable to attending meetings as our Mistress of Coin, that would only leave Ships,” John concluded. “Which is most agreeable.”

“Very,” Derek uttered, turning to look at Stiles.

Stiles offered a smile as he walked forward to meet Derek halfway. He greeted Derek with a welcoming kiss, his anxiety settling now that he saw him.

“Is all well?” Derek asked, wanting to know how Stiles’ visit to the Maester went.

Stiles nodded. “Very well,” he faintly laughed. He looked at his father, wondering if he knew as Peter had.

John’s expression was one of slight confusion, as if he knew something was happening but he couldn’t tell what. His gaze flickered to Stiles’ stomach for a moment before looking up at his son’s face. Sudden hopeful recognition, his expression open and unsure if he should dare ask. “You’re ...”

Stiles looked at Derek, almost laughing when he saw the confused furrow of Derek’s brow.

“You’re?” Derek looked at John before looking at Stiles.

Stiles released an amused huff of air, taking Derek’s hands in his own. He placed one of Derek’s hands against the slight curve in his stomach.

Derek’s brows suddenly lifted, arching high before settling in their natural pensive stance. He looked from Stiles’ stomach, where his hand was resting, back to Stiles’ face. His features were open, vulnerable even. “With child.”

Stiles released a soft but giddy laugh. “Yes,” he pleasantly admitted, a smile blazen on his face. “Deaton confirmed it.”

Derek pulled Stiles into a hug, wrapping his arms around him in a tight embrace. He buried his face in the curve of Stiles’ neck. He couldn’t remember being this happy in a long time.

Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek’s neck.

“You’re happy, tell me you’re happy,” Derek suddenly stated, his joy souring for a moment at the thought of Stiles dreading this news despite his apparent happy mood.

Stiles nodded quickly when Derek pulled back. “I’m happy,” he stated, surprising himself when he realized it had been far too long since he could admit that.

John felt something in his stomach untwisting when he heard Stiles say those words. He feared, for a long time, he’d never hear them.

~*~

Stiles heavily panted as he waited out the wave of nausea. “Whoever said having children was a blessing,” he started, closing his eyes as he tried to keep himself from vomiting once more. “Never carried them.”

John rubbed circles into Stiles’ back, a soothing comfort. “Your mother spent most of your pregnancy with her head in a bucket,” he stated.

“If I have to, I refuse to have more,” Stiles remarked.

“Once you have them in your arms, you might change your mind,” John replied. “Your mother wanted another one—to give you a sibling.”

Stiles turned his head to look at his father.

John was in formal attire, having come from the small council meeting. He came to visit Stiles upon hearing that his son was resting in bed from another sleepless night. He had seen the circles under Derek’s eyes, remembering how he looked much the same when Claudia was pregnant. He knew it must have been a bad night.

“You’re implying I should have another one when I haven’t even had one?” Stiles asked.

John faintly laughed. “No, of course not.” He offered Stiles a glass of water from the nightstand.

Stiles drank nearly the entire glass before handing it back to John. He fell back against the pillows, resting his arm over his eyes as he tried to ignore his headache. “Are they making the announcement?”

John placed the glass back on the nightstand. “Derek asked that it be delayed until you felt well enough to attend it with him.”

Stiles moved his arm enough to look at John. “So, after I have the baby.”

John faintly smiled. “The announcement is ready for whenever you say—at the drop of a coin.”

Stiles groaned. “What about Chris?”

“We believe he’s been kept in the dark,” John replied. “But the longer we wait, the more chance runs that someone will tell him.”

“And then Gerard will know and tell everyone it is a bastard, unworthy of a Hale name,” Stiles bitterly stated. He forced himself to sit up, moving to get out of the bed.

“Where are you going?” John asked in confusion, standing with Stiles as he helped to steady his son.

Stiles drew in a deep breath. “I’m going to wash out my mouth. Then, I’m going to tell my husband we are making the announcement.”

“Stiles, you’ve been sick—”

“I’m not going to let that monster call my child a bastard,” Stiles sharply stated as he looked at his father. “I won’t let him,” he firmly stated. “I can’t control how some people see me, but I’m not going to let them paint a future for my child that they can’t escape.”

John was silent for a beat before finally nodding. “Get dressed, I’ll tell Derek.”

Stiles was grateful for his father agreeing, knowing there was reason in telling him to not push the announcement yet. But he knew his grandmother’s warning was true—there were too many spiders pulling the strings throughout King’s Landing for them to risk delaying.

~*~

Stiles took a turn about the gardens, his hand massaging the curve of his stomach after feeling his child kick. He was lost in thought, still conscious of Isaac’s footsteps shadowing him. He offered a pleasant smile to anyone who passed him, wishful to keep a welcoming expression in hopes no one would see how fragile he had been in recent days. He was relieved to know that the seven kingdoms were in rejoicing spirits after the announcement—even months later, with Gerard desperate for something, the people appeared to flock towards approval for a Hale King.

Stiles paused when he saw Chris sitting on the lip of a garden fountain.

Chris has arrived over two months ago, having continually delayed his arrival at his father's behest. He was hesitant to leave Allison, grateful for the constant updates she sent every chance. He couldn't figure out what the ploy was—if he was meant to be his father's spy or Derek's prisoner. He read the parchment in his hand, a pensive expression on his face. He looked up when he heard Stiles approaching. He stood, folding the parchment up to put away in his vest pocket. “Your Majesty,” he greeted Stiles.

“Lord Argent,” Stiles offered a small smile. “Reading a love letter?”

Chris laughed, shaking his head. “No, just receiving word about my daughter.”

“Good news, I hope,” Stiles replied.

“She’s disappointed I came alone,” Chris answered. “Worried about my health.”

Stiles nodded. “I understand her sentiment. I am the same way about my father,” he admitted. He looked around them before asking, “Will you take a walk with me?”

Chris looked over at Isaac before back to Stiles. “I couldn’t resist such an invitation.”

Stiles turned towards the closest walkway, starting to walk through the garden, knowing that Chris would follow him eventually.

Chris walked by Isaac, following after Stiles. He knew a gesture of goodwill when he was offered it.

“You’ve been here a while now,” Stiles started, his gaze looking at the roses lining the hedges. “Do you intend to stay in King’s Landing for a long time?”

“I stay for as long as the King wishes me here,” Chris strategically answered. “My father has asked for me to come back, though I find myself torn.”

Stiles paused by one of the roses, carefully picking it. “Will you invite your daughter to join you?”

“I don’t think that would be appropriate,” Chris answered.

Stiles looked at Chris. “Do you think yourself in danger?”

“I think the King keeps a sharp eye on me,” Chris remarked, his gaze looking back at Isaac for a moment. “He thinks my family means you harm.”

“Your father,” Stiles corrected Chris, leveling the older man with a stern look. “Your father means me harm.”

“That is a heavy accusation, Your Majesty,” Chris replied.

“I think you know it’s not,” Stiles countered, leveling Chris with a serious look. “I think you’ve finally figured out what your father’s intentions were for me from the start. You wouldn’t have accepted Peter’s offer if you didn’t. And with a Hale heir on the way, your father couldn’t risk you refusing.” His fingertip scraped against one of the rose’s thorns, trying to steel his resolve. “So my question, Chris, is if you mean me harm.”

Chris took a moment before answering, “I never meant you harm. I’m here to try and salvage things.”

Stiles looked at Isaac, gesturing his head for him to leave. He could see the wariness and hesitation in Isaac’s features before reluctantly followed his order. He waited for Isaac to be far enough away before saying, “Do you love your daughter, Chris?”

Chris’ brow furrowed. “Of course I do.”

“I love my child as well,” Stiles replied. “Despite that they haven't drawn breath, nor have I seen their face. And I know I’d do anything to keep my child, and my husband safe.” He took a step towards Chris. “So I’m asking you, what would you do in my place?”

~*~

“I think if you speak with him immediately, you should have a chance of swaying him,” Stiles pressed Peter for urgency. “He appeared sincere. I think he’s worried about his daughter.”

Derek was silent as he remained in his chair at the head of the table. He was staring at the fireplace to avoid looking at anyone, lost in his own thoughts.

Peter cautiously looked at Derek before looking at Stiles.

“What?” Stiles demanded when Peter didn’t answer him.

“You met with Chris, alone,” Peter finally stated.

“Yes,” Stiles uttered.

Derek rubbed his hands over his face as he sat up in his seat. “Why would you do something so foolish?”

Stiles looked at Derek, anger seeping into his gut. “What?”

Derek looked at Stiles. “You know the Argents are dangerous,” he plainly stated.

“Gerard is the one seeking me harm,” Stiles countered.

“Chris is just as dangerous,” Derek remarked.

“This is ridiculous,” Stiles nearly snapped. “You’ve had meetings with him.”

“I’ve never been in a room alone with him,” Derek sharply replied. “I’ve never made the mistake of trusting him alone with me.”

“He has never intended me harm,” Stiles stated.

“No, but you’d make a perfect spouse once you’re widowed,” Peter remarked in a low tone.

Stiles incredulously looked at Peter. “What are you implying?”

“I’m implying that once Gerard successfully attacks us, we’ll have to close the Keep and the Capital’s gates,” Peter started as he turned towards Stiles, closing the gap between them with a few steps as he spoke. “Whether that happens before or after you have your child, is entirely up to Gerard’s timing.” He pointed towards Derek. “But as a King should, Derek would ride out to meet them, putting himself on the chopping block. If he dies, that leaves you and a newborn child ripe for the plucking.” Stiles took a step back from Peter, disliking his tone. “Gerard would immediately see to it you’re married to his son, and your child would be thrown from the Red Keep’s highest tower, per tradition of toppling royal families.”

Stiles looked at Derek, his stomach unsettling when he wouldn’t look at him.

“I can’t tell you what type of man Chris has become, but if he is still under control of his senseless loyalty to his family, he would put a child in you before even your ceremony concluded,” Peter finally ended his lecture. “Familial duty and all,” he bitterly uttered.

“I spoke to him in the garden, I didn’t ask him into my bedchamber,” Stiles vehemently stated.

“Do you know what will be said? You’ve fucked Derek in the garden before,” Peter stated.

“Peter!” Derek snapped at his uncle, standing up. “I think what we do is vastly different from what you’re implying.”

Peter looked at Derek. “You all seem to think I’m the one making things up for my own amusement,” he roughly stated, anger and annoyance tiring his tone. “It is my _job_ to advise you both. I am crass to get it through your heads that everything you do, together and apart, is scrutinized. I will not be the one spreading whispers of Stiles seducing men in the gardens—I will be the one working hard to erase those accusations with rumors of my own.” He looked at Stiles. “You are fiercely intelligent, Stiles. But you need to stop pressing matters you should not press. Allow others to do their jobs without jeopardizing your life in the process.”

Peter departed before either of the younger men could say anything.

Derek was silent as he sunk back down into his chair.

Stiles looked at Derek. “Are you mad at me for trying to help?”

Derek shook his head. “No, never,” he admitted. “I’m more scared to think what Peter said is the course we’ve mistakenly plotted.”

Stiles nodded. “I think we should keep our sex life in private for a while,” he commented, offering a small smile to Derek when his husband looked at him. “That’s the second time Peter has admitted he knows we’ve had sex somewhere that isn’t our bedroom.”

Derek faintly chuckled, as if his heart wasn’t completely in it. “He’s the spymaster. I suppose he wouldn’t be doing his job if he didn’t know that much.”

Stiles walked along the side of the table, moving to sit on the edge closest to Derek. He brushed his knee against Derek’s thigh as he placed protective hands on his stomach. He looked at Derek, his pleasant smile falling from his lips. “I’d kill myself before I let what Peter said happen,” he weakly confessed.

Derek reached a hand out, pulling one of Stiles’ hands away from his belly in order to fold their hands together. “I will do everything I can to prevent that,” he uttered with conviction.

“I know,” Stiles replied. He didn’t want to admit that he was afraid of that most. He lived in fear of the day he’d hear about Derek’s death, knowing he’d have to continue in a world that didn’t want him, without the one person who made it all bearable.

Derek shuffled his weight to sit on the edge of his chair, releasing his hold on Stiles’ hand as he moved to wrap his arms around Stiles’ waist. He rested his head against the top curve of Stiles’ stomach, closing his eyes when Stiles ran his hand through his hair. His head jerked up when he felt the telltale sign of a kick hit Stiles’ stomach, just below Derek’s jaw.

Stiles faintly laughed, smiling more when Derek pressed a kiss to his clothed stomach. He drew in a shaky breath, watching Derek’s gentle movements. “I love you,” he softly uttered, as if he wasn’t aware he said it.

Derek looked up at Stiles.

“I just realized I haven’t told you that before,” Stiles admitted.

Derek reached out to brush the back of his hand across Stiles’ cheek.

Stiles held onto Derek’s hand, turning his cheek into Derek’s gesture. “I just wanted you to know that.”

“And I love you,” Derek replied, leaning close before hesitating to kiss Stiles. “I’ll do my best to prove it to you.”

“You already have,” Stiles replied, leaning forward to kiss Derek.

~*~

_ He said he loved me. I didn’t question it, nor my own words of love. I could see it in his eyes. _

_ I’m scared, grandmother—I’m so scared of what I’m capable of to keep that love. I’m terrified to lose it. I never thought I’d love him. I never was hopeful enough that he’d love me. _

~*~

Chris opened the door to his bedchamber, looking up at the person who knocked. He faintly frowned as he looked at Peter. “Yes?”

Peter scoffed playfully as he walked by Chris, entering his bedroom without invitation.

“Yes, come in,” Chris deadpanned as he moved to shut the door, following Peter.

Peter was standing by the serving table, picking up the pitcher of wine as he poured himself a glass of wine.

“Peter,” Chris stated his name as he moved to stand behind the man, crossing his arms over his chest.

“We haven’t had a chance to talk, but I figure if you’re speaking to Stiles, you’ll open up for me,” Peter finally stated, turning to look at Chris. He lifted the glass to his lips, taking a drink of his wine.

“It’s the middle of the night,” Chris noted.

“You were awake,” Peter replied, moving to sit down on the parlor’s couch after gesturing towards the lit lamps and fireplace providing a great deal of light despite the darkness of night. He propped his arm up on the back of the couch, smiling at Chris.

Chris shook his head, a fond smile on his lips as he moved to sit beside Peter. “What brings you here?”

“We haven’t spoken in years,” Peter replied. “I was shocked you even answered my raven.”

Chris nodded slowly. “I thought about ignoring it,” he admitted. “But it intrigued me.”

“So you are here to broker a deal,” Peter commented.

“I’m here to protect my daughter from whatever Gerard has planned,” Chris explained as he looked away from Peter.

Peter hummed in understanding as he took another drink of his glass. “Apologies about your wife,” he stated, looking at Chris.

“Her death wasn’t an accident,” Chris stated, as if he needed to say it before Peter continued.

“I wasn’t going to say it was,” Peter replied. “Victoria was a skilled hunter, it seems very strange that she was impaled by a boar’s tusks when the woman could kill just about anything with a bow.” He expectantly looked at Chris. “Your father’s doing?”

Chris was silent for a beat. “You understand why I’m desperate to get Allison out of his reach.”

“Then you also know I’m here to protect my nephew, as well as Stiles.”

“I meant what I told Stiles,” Chris replied, his voice calm and earnest. “I want to protect my daughter, and I understand his concerns for his own child and husband.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that your father is capable of twisting you like a worm on a hook,” Peter forcefully answered, pinning Chris with a tense expression.

Chris’ brow furrowed. “Do you still resent me?”

Peter cruelly laughed, sitting up to lean his arms against his knees. “Presumptuous of you,” he uttered.

“You were in love with Nathan,” Chris accused Peter, conscious of the eerie silence that seeped into the room. “I couldn’t compete with that. Gerard made it clear what type of future we couldn’t have.”

“I was  _ fascinated _ by Nathan,” Peter corrected Chris as he looked over his shoulder at the man. “I was in love with you.”

Chris shuffled some, rearranging his limbs. “I don’t know what you’re playing at Peter,” he dejectedly uttered.

“You think I was playing?” Peter softly asked as he leaned back into the corner of the couch, angling his body towards Chris. “I don’t lose my way in manors I’m familiar with, Chris,” he offered. “I knew which room was yours.”

Chris remembered waking up to Peter slipping into his bed, a warm body beneath the blanket. He was surprised, pleasantly so, when he realized it was Peter, smiling and laughing with him when Peter said he had lost his way. The kisses were spontaneous, both left breathless and panting by their attempts to lose themselves in one another. Chris was pliant and willing when Peter straddled his hips, both of them pulling at clothes in a desperate attempt to disrobe each other.

_ Foolish _ , Gerard had called Chris after the weeks that followed.

And with his father’s raging disappointment, Chris was married to a River lord’s daughter in the following weeks, unable to look at Peter again.

Chris stood, leaning to the side as he easily took the glass from Peter’s hand. He slowly pulled the glass from Peter’s grasp, watching Peter’s face as he did so.

Peter’s lips parted as he watched Chris.

Chris placed the glass on the table, turning back to Peter. He slipped his knee between Peter’s legs, brushing between Peter’s thighs before resting on the cushion.

Peter shifted his hips to relieve the pressure, surprised by Chris’ forward motion. “What are you doing?”

Chris reached his hand out to lean against the back of the couch, his arm hovering above Peter’s shoulder. He leaned closer, “Doing what I’ve wanted to keep doing since that day he tore us apart.” He leaned into Peter, kissing him deeply as if a day hadn’t past, let alone years.

Peter sat up, pressing into their kiss as he reached an arm up to grab at the back of Chris’ shirt, material bunching in his fist just above the small of Chris’ back. “This doesn’t change the topic of conversation,” he breathlessly spoke between kisses. “Delays it for a moment _ — _ ”

“Stop talking, Peter,” Chris instructed, burying his hand in Peter’s hair as he guided their mouths back together.

~*~

Derek stared at the parchment Peter had set on the table. He looked up at Peter, a look of perplexity taking over. “I’m confused.”

“It’s not that confusing,” Peter uttered.

“This is a marriage proposal,” Derek deadpanned.

“Not to you,” Peter remarked. “It’s a marriage license, anyways,” he clarified with a smirk. “We need you to approve of the wedding for it to be legal.”

Derek stared at Peter. “You married Chris.”

Stiles gave a faint smile to Peter. “Was this your plan for inviting Chris here?”

Peter looked at Stiles. “It was actually a pleasant surprise,” he stated with a smile. “I decided to take our concerns and remove them from the board.”

Derek looked down at the parchment before back up at Peter.

Peter arched his eyebrows. “It’s not that difficult to comprehend, Derek.”

“I guess I’m just confused why you married him,” Derek mumbled as he looked at Stiles, wondering if Stiles had any idea this was happening.

Peter sighed, shaking his head some. “Some things are my own whispers to keep,” he offered. “Chris and I had a history, a while before you were born. His father caught us one night, and in the following days he was married to a well respected young lady. And now we’re here.”

Derek looked at the parchment, pausing as he looked up at Peter. “Is this what you want?”

“Shockingly, yes,” Peter honestly answered with his own disbelieving scoff. “I’m looking forward to seeing Gerard’s face, actually. He might have a stroke if we’re lucky.”

Stiles laughed.

Derek picked up the quill, signing his name on the bottom of the parchment, legalizing the marriage certificate. “Congratulations, then.”

“May I be as happy as you both,” Peter stated with a smile as he took the parchment from Derek.

~*~

Servants bustled through the halls, carrying bloodied sheets away to be burned as others scrambled to do as the maester ordered.

_ Too soon _ . Stiles thought he heard Deaton say it was too soon. He was delirious from the pain, unsure if he heard the maester correctly just as another pain threatened to split him in two.

A scream echoed through the Keep, a loud pain filled cry that cut through the morning’s budding sunrise.

A baby’s first cry followed shortly after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise, the baby and Stiles are fine. I was going to have that last segment as a single chapter by itself but I figured that was too cruel, so I added it on the end of here. The next chapter will experience a bit of a time jump.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I mentioned on tumblr, posting was delayed by a week because this chapter wasn't really working for me. I changed some things in the story to make it work better, which ultimately changes the next chapter as well. I'll have to do some rewrites to make it all come together.
> 
> I took out some of the angst because Derek and Stiles don't deserve all that. There is still some major angst in this chapter, regardless. (warning for minor character death)
> 
> Enjoy!

Stiles looked down at his son, a soft smile on his lips. He brushed his fingertips through the baby’s wisps of hair, still in near disbelief that he was holding his son in his arms. “I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time,” he whispered.

Samuel stretched his body, his limbs wiggling before pawing at Stiles’ chest. He made a soft huffing sound, laxing into Stiles’ embrace before falling asleep once more.

Stiles placed a gentle kiss into Samuel’s hair.

He had been afraid he would lose his child before ever meeting him. He was exhausted by the pain, unsure if he had been hallucinating when he heard Samuel’s first cries. He wasn’t sure how he fell asleep, knowing it was likely a sedative administered by the maester. He was overwhelmed with unexpected happiness when he woke to Derek sitting by his bedside, Samuel cradled in one arm and parchments shifting in his other hand.

“They said you were too far away,” Stiles spoke, wanting to know if it was a dream.

Derek dropped the parchments without concern as he stood from his chair, he moved in favor of sitting on the edge of the bed. He kept a braced hold on Samuel to keep him from being jostled. “I apparently insulted a bunch of river lords by leaving when the raven arrived.”

Stiles sat up some in an attempt to see their child.

“Apparently a king shouldn’t be concerned about consort or child,” Derek uttered, a hidden bitterness surfacing as he recalled Lydia’s letter explaining which lords and ladies were most incessant about their annoyance. “Your cousin fixed it though.”

Stiles leaned against Derek, resting his head against Derek’s shoulder. “I’m glad you came back.”

“I wish I had been here,” Derek countered as he wrapped his free arm around Stiles. 

“Not much you could have done,” Stiles rationalized. “I just screamed a bunch.” He reached his free hand up to touch Samuel’s cheek, smiling at just how soft and pudgy their son was. “He has so many baby rolls,” he fondly commented. “I thought he’d be too small.”

“All babies have rolls like that,” Derek answered.

“Are you an expert in babies, now?” Stiles sarcastically asked as he looked up at Derek.

“I know more than maesters, clearly,” Derek jested.

Stiles faintly laughed, looking back at Samuel. “Can we stay like this—for a little while?”

Derek looked down at Stiles, drawing him in for a chaste kiss as he pressed their lips together. “Of course.”

~*~

“The prince’s birth was dangerous for you,” Deaton explained when Stiles didn’t answer him.

Stiles’ features were scrunched together in pensiveness. “You’re saying … I can’t have another child?”

“For the time being,” Deaton corrected Stiles. “It would be dangerous for both you and the child should you have another too soon.”

Stiles looked away from Deaton, his gaze dropping to look at Samuel as he slept in the small bassinet. He had been relieved that Samuel grew at a steady rate, appearing to be healthy despite his premature birth in the passing months. He had been looking forward to his appointment with Deaton, hoping the maester would clear them both of all health risks.

“First pregnancies can be dangerous,” Deaton continued to explain. “It often becomes easier after the first, however if you jump into having another child too soon, it could result in your death.”

Stiles faintly nodded before slipping out of his chair to go over to Samuel.

“I’ll inform his Majesty that he should leave your bed empty in the following months,” Deaton stated when Stiles didn’t answer him.

Stiles looked at Deaton, knowing what he meant. A King wasn’t expected to be told he couldn’t fuck when he wanted to. “His Majesty isn’t an animal incapable of controlling his desires,” he sharply countered.

Deaton did not look swayed by Stiles’ annoyed words. “And should I remind you, that it is in his Majesty’s rights to find bodily comfort where he wishes. He cannot find that in your bed at this time.”

Stiles’ brow pinched, anger twisting his gut. “I will tell his Majesty what you said,” he firmly stated as he turned to pick Samuel up. “If we’re done with my check up, I’ll be going,” he dismissively uttered, turning to leave the rooms without another word shared between him and Deaton.

Stiles walked in a calm manner, not wanting people to see him rushing out of the maester’s rooms in a flurry of anger. The rumors would spread with vicious intent.

Samuel was awake and pulling at the locket around Stiles’ neck. He moved the pendant back and forth on the chain as he pressed his face against Stiles’ chest. He made a high pitch noise of discontent as he wiggled to get turned around in Stiles’ arms.

“Stop, you’re tired,” Stiles gently chastised his son as he altered his hold on Samuel.

Samuel blew out a huff of breath, his lips vibrating as a burbling noise escaped.

Stiles faintly laughed. “You’re like your father,” he noted with fondness.

“If you mean irresistibly handsome, then you are correct.”

Stiles’ steps slowed to a stop, turning to look back at the owner’s voice, a smile on his lips. He watched Derek approach them with ease. “No, I was referring to you being moody,” he noted when Derek was beside him. “We both know we’re handsome,” he added as he smiled at Samuel.

Derek scoffed out a laugh, reaching to take ahold of Samuel.

Stiles allowed Derek to take their son from his arms, watching as Derek settled Samuel against his hip. He reached a hand out, fondly touching the soft arch of Samuels’ foot. He brushed his thumb across Samuel’s toes, smiling when Samuel released a faint giggle.

Stiles wasn’t looking to have another child just yet, wishing to enjoy his time with his first baby. But something gnawed at the back of his mind as he recalled Deaton’s words. He wondered how right the maester was in thinking he’d be in danger—he wondered how common a belief it was for Derek to seek another’s bed.

~*~

“Something is bothering you,” Derek noted as he unlaced his boots. He looked up at Stiles briefly, catching sight of his husband slipping into his nightshirt. His fingers paused briefly when he saw the scar running low across Stiles’ stomach, arched from hip to hip—a remnant of Samuel’s birth, and a reminder despite the months that passed.

Derek remembered the smell of blood lingering in the room when he first saw Stiles, despite the days that passed. He had seen the soiled rags in a bucket of bloodied water that had been used to wash some of them. He was aware how now Stiles avoided allowing him to see the scar.

Stiles looked at Derek as he moved towards the bed, bunching his nightshirt up to midthigh as he settled on the bed beside Derek. He slipped behind Derek, his hands moving to caress and massage Derek’s shoulders.

Derek used his feet to kick his boots the remainder of the way off, leaning back into Stiles’ touch. “Are you trying to change the subject?”

Stiles’ fingers moved along the collar of Derek’s shirt, fingertips pressing into Derek’s bare skin. He pressed a kiss to the back of Derek’s neck.

“You were quiet at dinner,” Derek pressed, reaching his arm backwards to touch Stiles. His hand ran over Stiles’ bare thigh, slipping beneath Stiles’ nightshirt.

Stiles wordlessly pressed his body against Derek’s, wrapping his arms around Derek’s shoulders as he tucked his face behind the curve of Derek’s ear.

“What’s wrong?” Derek asked in concern as he covered Stiles’ arm with his own, holding his husband’s grip tightly.

“I can’t give you more children,” Stiles weakly confessed against Derek’s skin.

Derek tried to turn his head to look at Stiles, stilling when he felt Stiles’ grip tighten.

“I might, some day, be able to again,” Stiles pressed, knowing his words would be more confusing than helpful in explaining their situation. “I’m not healthy enough to try, for a while. And the maester said that you should … ” He sighed, pressing his forehead down into the curve of Derek’s shoulder. “That you should seek comfort in another’s bed for the foreseeable months.”

Stiles startled briefly when Derek pulled his arms apart, forcing him to release his hold on Derek. He willingly moved when Derek climbed into his space, reclining back on the bed as he spread his legs to welcome Derek between his thighs. His hands traveled over Derek’s arms, climbing and brushing across Derek’s shoulders.

“Do I look like I want the comfort of another’s bed?” Derek asked Stiles as he settled over Stiles.

“You know I’m insecure,” Stiles reasoned as he looked down between them, avoiding looking Derek in the eye. He faintly moaned Derek dipped down to share a kiss.

“You’re a mystery,” Derek softly spoke against Stiles’ lips. “You wear a mask of perfection and indifference, but I get to see this,” he commented, his fingers brushing through Stiles’ hair. “You let me see you.”

Stiles tightened his grip on Derek’s back, blinking back the tears collecting in the corners of his eyes. “I like being seen.”

Derek drew Stiles into another kiss.

Stiles curled one of his legs around Derek’s hip, pulling him in closer.

“I’ll never seek another’s bed,” Derek spoke against Stiles’ lips. “Besides, we have many other options,” he uttered with a small smile. “Many other positions.”

Stiles slightly laughed, kissing Derek again.

~*~

Stiles hummed a soft melody as he held Samuel in his arms, watching his son fall asleep. He wondered if he ever believed he’d be here one day, looking down at his child with the king, with nothing but admiration and love in his heart for them both.

“Stiles,” John softly spoke his son’s name, placing his hand on Stiles’ shoulder to gain his attention.

Stiles looked up at his father, his smile falling from his face when he saw the seriousness in his expression.

“Derek needs to talk to you,” John whispered, conscious of Samuel in Stiles’ arms.

Stiles’ brow pinched in confusion, a sudden dread rising in his stomach as he thought that perhaps Derek changed his mind in the passing weeks. Perhaps Derek found a mistress he preferred to Stiles. His mind told him rationally that wouldn’t be the case, but he couldn’t stop the treacherous thoughts from seeping in. He stood with minor difficulty, becoming accustomed to moving with Samuel in his arms. He was grateful when his father offered to take Samuel, knowing his son would immediately start crying if he was set down.

“It’s alright,” John uttered, as if he knew Stiles needed the reassurance.

Stiles faintly smiled at his father, leaning in to press a kiss to the top of Samuel’s head, running his fingertips through his son’s hair. He reluctantly parted from his father, heading for the parlor.

Derek wasn’t alone in the parlor, Peter pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace.

Stiles observed the two men, looking between them. He had grown accustomed to understanding the Hale men and their emotions, and it was easy to see that both of them were upset—Peter looked the angriest Stiles had seen him. “I’m afraid to ask,” he stated as he moved to enter the parlor completely.

Derek looked at Stiles from his spot on the couch. “A complication,” he chose to word the situation as Peter had originally.

Peter halted his pacing, his arms outstretched to lean against the fireplace’s mantle with hands fisted in anger against the frame. “My new  _ father-in-law _ is trying to annul my marriage.”

Stiles couldn’t say he was happy to know the situation didn’t involve him, feeling dread at knowing Gerard’s scheme was coming to a point.

“He won’t accept a marriage to his heir, unless he is in attendance,” Peter bitterly recalled the letter Chris had to finish reading before Peter tore it apart.

Stiles’ stomach was roiling again. “He wants a public ceremony,” he pieced together what no one seemed to want to tell him.

Peter leaned away from the fire, turning to face Derek and Stiles. He twisted the ring on his left hand, spinning the metal around his finger in a fidgeting manner. “This is my fault,” he admitted to Derek.

Derek shook his head. “You didn’t know he’d pull this.”

“It’s my job to know these things, Derek,” Peter sharply countered. “I failed to do that.”

Stiles’ expression softened some as he looked at Peter. “Peter,” he gently addressed the older man. “You didn’t know,” he echoed Derek’s words. “Gerard is a terrible man, who will do whatever he can to ruin others’ lives.” He walked over to the couch, moving to sit beside Derek. He leaned into Derek’s side when he felt his husband’s arm rest against the small of his back. “If Gerard wants a wedding ceremony, then we’ll host a beautiful wedding ceremony,” he finally stated.

Peter crossed his arms over his chest as he looked at Stiles. “This is a ploy for him to get close to us.”

“It’s also a ploy for us to get close to him,” Stiles replied.

Derek curiously looked at Stiles.

“If he’s here, he can’t be scheming elsewhere,” Stiles reasoned. “We’ll have a ceremony in the Sept of Baelor, and invite Gerard to his son’s wedding in King’s Landing.”

“Stiles, that’s inviting a fox into a hen house,” Derek replied.

“Don’t invite him into the Keep,” Stiles countered, looking at Peter. “Have Chris write back to Gerard and tell him His Majesty agreed to hold a greater ceremony in the Sept. He’ll either be too cowardly to accept, or fumble. Either way, we can use it to our advantage.”

Derek tightened his hold on Stiles, unable to deny that he was reluctant to agree to the scheme.

~*~

Stiles was in the gardens when he was told. It was almost fitting, he would think in the aftermath, when his grief was something he learned to live with.

Derek looked as if something was wrong, his voice somber and clipped when he addressed the servants to leave them. He asked Boyd to take Samuel, relieved when his friend didn’t question him.

Stiles knew, in his bones, something was wrong just by the look Derek gave him. He reluctantly gave up his hold on Samuel, watching his sleeping son be carried away by Boyd. He knew his husband’s touches were too soft, a coaxing to get Stiles prepared for the worst.

“Gerard sent a raven,” Derek explained, his hands moving to hold Stiles’ biceps in a braced gesture—prepared for the worst reaction to grip Stiles. “From High Garden.”

Stiles’ brow pinched as his mouth moved to speak. He wasn’t sure what he was thinking, let alone what he was asking. “High Garden?”

Derek nodded. “He’s sending word to the high lords of Westeros, declaring I’m a usurper to the throne, and you’re …  _ unfit _ for consort.” He refused to repeat the words Gerard had written.

Stiles faintly shook his head. “High Garden … how is he in High Garden?” He asked in confusion, Derek’s previous words being lost on him. He stared at Derek when his husband didn’t answer him. “My grandmother,” he stated. “He’s using her as a ransom.”

Derek’s visage was grim, guilt flickering across his features. “He’s not ransoming Olynna,” he slowly started. “I’m sorry, Stiles.”

“No,” Stiles barely whispered, attempting to take a step back from Derek, dread sinking deep in his gut. He realized he couldn’t when Derek’s hold on him kept them close. “No,” he stated in a firmer voice. “Derek, no.”

“I’m sorry, Stiles,” Derek uttered again as he kept a tight grip on Stiles.

“No,” Stiles countered, as if it was enough to prove Derek wrong. “No, no, that can’t—” A sharp sob cut through his chest. “She’s fine—” He was trembling, unsure when he started to sink towards the ground. His hands gripped Derek’s tunic, nails digging into Derek like claws as he struggled to find his breath. Another sob hiccuped from his chest before a mournful scream tore through him as his strength left him.

Derek cradled Stiles against his chest, allowing Stiles to curl in on himself as he steady his husband. He tried speaking soft words of love and apologies against the shell of Stiles’ ear, hoping he could hear him. He was thankful Boyd had taken Samuel away, knowing the boy would have screamed and cried at seeing Stiles in such a state.

Wailing. Stiles would have called it wailing, had he the state of mind to comment. He would have remained in the gardens, splayed out on the ground as grief and anger started to split his world apart, had Derek not lifted him in a tight embrace and carried him from public view.

~*~

“He’s asleep,” John stated as he exited the bedroom, closing the door gently behind him. He drew in a deep breath as he moved to sit on one of the couches. He placed his head in his hand, realizing he would have to face his own grief over his mother’s death.

Peter handed John a glass, offering it up as a solution.

“I don’t typically drink,” John commented as he looked at Peter.

“It’s water,” Peter explained. “Trust me, it helps to stay hydrated.”

John softly scoffed as he shook his head, reluctantly taking the glass from Peter. He was nursing the glass in his hands when he looked up to see Derek entering the room with Chris, Boyd and Lydia following after them.

Lydia’s face was red, her eyes puffy and nose sniffling. She moved to take a seat next to John, her hand reaching out to take his. She couldn’t stop her tears when John pulled her into a hug.

“What have you heard?” Peter asked Chris.

Chris looked from Peter to Derek. He kept silent for a moment when he realized Derek was staring at the bedroom door.

Derek pulled his eyes away from the bedroom door, observing the others gathered before turning his attention to Chris.

“My daughter spoke to several different bannermen she knows we can trust,” Chris started to explain. “They told her that Lady Stilinski took poison,” he paused for a moment, his eyes looking to Lydia and John. “She only spoke to Gerard for a moment before she succumbed.”

Lydia pressed her handkerchief against her mouth, closing her eyes.

“Where is her body?” John asked, wanting to know when he could properly bury his mother.

Chris looked at Peter.

Peter crossed his arms over his chest, drawing in a deep breath.

“What happened?” John forcefully asked.

“Gerard had her beheaded,” Peter’s voice was even, despite the wavering in his jaw. “He sent her head along with letters to Derek.”

Lydia cried harder.

John’s hand tightened into a fist against the couch’s armrest.

“I received a raven from Winterfell,” Derek announced. “The Northern armies are marching to join us in the river lands.” He looked at Chris, addressing the man directly, “Your daughter is in Casterly Rock, correct?”

Chris nodded.

“Have her claim that Casterly Rock is hers, not Gerard’s. Send your men, and a garrison of royal guards to help her defend it.” Derek looked at Boyd. “Help Chris pick the right men.”

Boyd nodded, “Of course.”

“I need you to prepare defenses for the Capital,” Derek added, taking a few steps to start a small pace. “I need a report for what we’ll need to take High Garden back.”

“Derek,” Peter started, the only person in the room prepared to say something. “He’s expecting you to retaliate.”

“Then what are you proposing we do?” Derek questioned as he looked at his uncle. “He’s called his bannermen against me. He’s called my consort a whore. He’s  _ murdered  _ the mother of my Hand, the grandmother of my husband.”

“I’m not saying we do nothing,” Peter started, his gaze flickering over to John. “But we have to be careful. He could have a trap waiting for you, or be counting on the Capital being undefended.”

John moved to stand, ushering Lydia to stand with him. “We should have a small council meeting tomorrow morning,” he instructed the others, making sure to keep Lydia from swaying too much on her unsteady feet. He looked at Derek. “You said Northern bannermen are marching?”

“My mother rallied them after Peter sent the raven. They should be here within the next fortnight,” Derek explained.

“We’ll have time to create our plan of action by then,” John noted. “For now, we need to grieve,” he reluctantly added.

~*~

Stiles was standing by the balcony, leaning against the decorative column where the curtains were pinned open. His gaze looked over the bay of King’s Landing, seeing the moon’s reflection cast over the water. He firmly tightened his arms across his chest when he heard Derek opening the door. He swallowed the lump in his throat as he waited for Derek to speak, conscious of the approaching footsteps.

“You’ve been awake the whole time, haven’t you?”

Stiles was quiet for a moment. “I didn’t want my father to worry,” he answered.

Derek reached his hand out, touching Stiles’ shoulder.

“Gerard … sent my grandmother’s head to you,” Stiles evenly stated, his voice hollow. He turned to look at Derek. “You didn’t tell me that.”

Derek saw the puffy circles around Stiles’ eyes, how red Stiles’ normally pale complexion was from the countless tears he shed. He allowed his hand to slip away from Stiles, wondering if they were being pulled apart by this—by a pain Derek tried to spare Stiles of. “Why would I tell you that?”

“She was my grandmother,” Stiles stated, his voice wavering. “I deserve to know.”

“I wasn’t going to tell you what he had done to her when I had to break the news of her death to you,” Derek firmly uttered.

Stiles couldn’t stop the tears this time. He allowed Derek to pull him into a comforting embrace. He pressed his face into the curve of Derek’s throat, his hands gripping Derek’s tunic tightly, resting just over Derek’s heart. He kept his eyes closed, a sharp sob leaving his chest. “I want him dead,” he barely breathed out. “I want him dead, Derek,” he stated even louder this second time.

Derek held Stiles in a tight embrace, one hand brushing through Stiles’ hair as he tried to comfort him. He gently prompted Stiles to pull back, his hand moving to hold Stiles’ chin. “That’s what you want?”

Stiles nodded, sniffling back some of his tears.

“Alright,” Derek answered, an affirming nod of his own head in agreement. “I’ll kill him, Stiles—with my bare hands if I have to.”

~*~

Derek waited until Stiles was asleep, confident he could hear his husband’s soft breathing evening out into a steady rhythm. He slipped from their bed, grabbing his dressing gown as a second thought as he exited the room in nothing but his trousers. He pulled his arms through the dressing gown as he entered the hallway, nodding in recognition to Boyd with a soft gesture of his hand telling the other man to stay by the door.

Derek wasn’t surprised to see Peter in the small council’s chamber.

Peter’s eyes were scanning the papers scattered across the table, pushing them across the wood as he compared and examined them. “You couldn’t wait for the morning,” he commented without looking up at Derek.

“What did you find?” Derek asked instead.

“Did you ask him?” Peter countered as he looked up at Derek.

“I wasn’t going to dignify Gerard’s ridiculous attempts to ruin us with a question like that,” Derek replied.

Peter frowned. “You may have to,” he replied.

Derek quickly stepped over to the table, grabbing some of the letters as he looked at them.

“The handwriting matches Stiles’ own,” Peter stated what Derek was likely realizing as he observed the penmanship.

“Doesn’t matter,” Derek replied, dropping the letters back to the table.

“Derek, there is no telling if Gerard has other letters Stiles had sent Olynna,” Peter warned his nephew.

“If he has those letters, they were from early in our marriage,” Derek countered.

Peter scoffed as he sat down in one of the seats. “I admire and despise both you and Stiles for your optimism when it comes to this.” He looked at Derek, an exasperated look covering his features. “The Northern bannermen your mother called together are going to arrive in the Capital tomorrow,” he explained. “If Gerard has these letters, and sways even some of them that Stiles is tricking their  _ Northern  _ King, there will be resentment and dissent in the ranks.”

Derek waited a moment before snatching up a few of the letters. “No one is to know we received these. And burn those,” he instructed Peter by gesturing to the letters he left on the table, turning to leave the tower.

Peter sat up in the chair as he watched Derek, calling after him, “Where are you going?”

“To speak with my husband.”

~*~

Stiles woke when he felt the weight shifting on the bed, turning to look at Derek. He sat up in concern when he realized enough torches were lit to give them light to see one another. “Is everyone okay?” He asked in concern when he saw Derek had a few pages of parchment in his hands.

Derek looked at Stiles as he offered the pages to him.

Stiles kept his eyes on Derek as he accepted the pages from him, turning them in his hand to read the words. His brow pinched in confusion.

_ I don’t know how much longer I can take this, grandmother. I have no one here to speak to—my husband is as expressive as a statue in one of our gardens; pleasant to look at, dull to be with. _

_ I could not stomach what Lydia has schemed with father. A Northern beast to call husband, while promising courtiers are sent away. I wanted to come home, marriage being a childish dream from the past. _

Stiles dropped the letters, allowing them to fall in disarray on the bed. “Gerard sent you these,” he stated, finally looking up at Derek.

Derek was sitting with his body tilted towards Stiles, his arm propping himself up. “He sent over a dozen,” he admitted.

Stiles was silent for a beat.

“I briefly looked over this one,” Derek explained as he poked one of the letters.

“You didn’t read it?” Stiles asked in confusion.

“I wasn’t going to go behind your back like that,” Derek replied. “I looked over this one to see if it was your handwriting.”

Stiles picked up the letters once more. “None of these are recent,” he explained as he stared down at his words. “I wrote these before Samuel was born—even before we went to Winterfell,” he added.

“You don’t have to—”

“I do,” Stiles pressed. “I was cruel in some of them; angry at you for accepting our marriage. For sending everyone away.”

Derek took the letters from Stiles, standing from his spot on the bed. He walked over to the fireplace, pausing for a moment.

Stiles pushed the blankets back, climbing out of the bed to follow Derek.

“I had Peter burn the other ones, in case Gerard tries to use this against us. We’ll have to burn these too.”

“You don’t want to read them?” Stiles asked.

“They’re private words between you and your grandmother,” Derek replied.

“They hold no meaning to me now,” Stiles explained, reaching his hand out to take hold of Derek’s. “I’m different in my feelings for you.”

“Stiles, we were different people,” Derek replied. “I can’t hold you accountable for how you felt then.”

Stiles pulled the letters from Derek’s hand, throwing them into the fire. “I do love you,” he said as he looked up at Derek. “It’s only ever been you that I’ve loved. I told my grandmother that in my last letter … but I imagine Gerard kept that one for himself.”

Derek reached his hand up to cup Stiles’ cheek. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you this before—I didn’t want to add worry to your grief.”

“If you believe me, I’m not worried then,” Stiles honestly stated. “But,” he started, biting back his words as his stomach twisted in knots. “I want you to know, I never lied to you about having lovers. But I had asked Parrish to be with me the night of the rebellion.”

Derek tried to school his expression, not wanting Stiles to think he was judging him. “I told you, you don’t have to explain—”

Stiles pressed his fingertips to Derek’s lips to stop him for a moment. “I know, and I’m telling you because I want you to know.” He dropped his hand from Derek’s mouth, resting his palm over Derek’s heart. “Parrish kissed me, that was it. I couldn’t ask someone I had only a few pleasant interactions with to bed me. It sounds ridiculous when my only option at the time was to be the Mad King’s victim.” He looked up at Derek. “But I meant what I said: I love you—it’s only ever been you.”

Derek pulled Stiles into a kiss, silencing both their doubts. “I love you, Stiles,” he spoke against Stiles’ lips. “And I’m going to fix this. I won’t let Gerard ruin what we’ve built here.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy this chapter. I added a scene with Olynna speaking with Gerard, per a suggestion in the comments.
> 
> The next chapter is the last chapter, and is a flash forward. Not too far, but it will have reflections on how the battle ended for a bit of clarity. The pacing worked better with the chapter(s) rewrites.

“You must feel proud of yourself,” Olynna stated when Gerard entered the room. She was sitting by the window she had watched the frey unfold from. She knew the outcome before the Argents laid siege to their walls—High Garden wasn’t Storm’s End, and would fall to anyone foolish enough to attack it.

“I’ve been planning this for decades,” Gerard noted.

“A blind man could have told me that,” Olynna remarked. “You’re dull.” She faintly smirked when Gerard dared to look insulted by her words. “High Garden is no stronghold—you’ve won nothing, Lord Argent. All you’ve done is invite the wolves to feast on your bones.”

Gerard scoffed at Olynna’s words. “With High Garden’s wealth, there is more than enough to sway the right people into following a great house.”

Olynna was silent for a beat before laughing. She placed her hand over her mouth to hide her struggle for breath. She knew her minutes were wilting away. “You think High Garden’s wealth is here?”

Gerard looked at Olynna, a glare of annoyance settling across his features.

“You pathetic man,” Olynna stated with contempt in her voice. “My son married the heir of Storm’s End. Do you think he was stupid enough to leave our treasury in High Garden, when we had an impenetrable stronghold to rely on?” She laughed when she saw the realization begin to crack Gerard’s mask. “As I said: you’ve won nothing.”

“You’ll get us what we want, Lady Olynna,” Gerard forcefully stated.

“I will not,” Olynna softly stated, her body sagging into her chair. “You walked into a trap of your own making, Gerard.” She drew in a deep breath, knowing she only had a few left. “I’m too old to be a puppet to a man,” she explained. “I’ll die knowing your death will follow.”

Gerard looked at the table, seeing there was an empty vial beside an upset goblet of wine. “This doesn’t change a thing.”

“It does,” Olynna added. “I’ve known what you are for a long time,” she admitted. “Just like the Mad King, you wanted to  _ pluck  _ a flower, crush its petals between your fingers,” she pressed, drawing in an unsteady breath before continuing. “But my grandson is covered in thorns. And you’ll learn that in the end.”

“Once that boy king falls, your grandson will come to heel—”

“That  _ boy king _ you love to ridicule,” Olynna sharply cut off Gerard’s words. “He loves my grandson, with a passion a worm like you could never understand. And you’ve just dealt a blow to the one person who could have persuaded a wolf to spare your life. My only regret is that I won’t be able to see him kill you.”

"I've dealt with the Hales before, I'll deal with them again," Gerard threatened.

Olynna's expression softened, her gaze looking at the men who escorted Gerard. "So it is true," she started, looking back at Gerard. "I could never prove you were the one that told the Mad King. But you told him about the Hale girl, didn't you?" She hoped the rumor would spread from this alone, unsure if her ravens survived the onslaught of Argent arrows.

"I wasn't about to let that bitch ruin a plan I had spent years setting up," Gerard growled out. "She wanted to remove the sole reason the rebellion was successful." He took a step towards Olynna, leaning down to her eye level as he spoke in a low tone. "Who do you think brought him his whores? Who squashed every rescue attempt anyone even breathed word about? The things I did to guarantee this ..." He bitterly scoffed. "I would have held your grandson down as that mad man fucked him, if it meant that rebellion happened."

Olynna released a pained huff of air, her anger seeping through her body at not being able to attack Gerard with her bare hands. "I hope you choke on your blood ... and even then, it'd be too good for you."

~*~

Stiles ran his hand through his horse’s mane, gently tapping his hand against the mare’s neck in a calming manner. He thought of braiding his horse’s mane, thinking back to when his mother would bring him to the stables in Storm’s End to care for the horses before his father would leave for a skirmish.

Stiles faintly smiled when Derek’s hand came into his view, looking at his husband’s hand enclosing over his. He looked at Derek, offering a sad smile.

“You don’t have to be here,” Derek offered. “You’re more than welcomed, but you don’t have to,” he explained.

“Yes, I do,” Stiles softly answered. He laced his fingers together with Derek’s. He was glad Derek had the civility Gerard lacked to offer a meeting to agree to terms. He looked up at the approaching horses, catching sight of the silver and navy lion banner.

Stiles knew it was a risk Derek had thankfully allowed them to take in order for him to be present—both King and Consort camped outside King’s Landing to prepare for battle. He hoped his father was making easy work of rallying Storm’s End, especially when Peter discovered Gerard’s plans of fleeing into Dorne. With the Argents cornered in the Reach, isolated in their seizure of High Garden, there was no escape.

“It’s remarkable how well you look,” Gerard commented as he looked at Stiles. “I heard troubling news about your health.”

Stiles tightened his hold on his reins.

“We’re here to discuss your surrender, Lord Argent, not swap pleasantries,” Derek evenly stated, his tone doing little to hide his anger.

“We won’t be surrendering,” Gerard replied, looking at Derek.

Derek drew in an even breath. “There is no point in there being a battle,” he stated. “We both know my army outnumbers yours.”

“Lady Olynna wasn’t the only dear soul in High Garden when it fell to our attacks,” Gerard countered, his gaze looking to Stiles. “I’m sure your  _ lovely _ consort can tell you all about them.”

Stiles glowered at the man. “You’d kill innocent people to make you feel in control?”

Derek looked at the men who accompanied Gerard, seeing how disinterested they looked in hearing Stiles speak. It seemed Peter was right—Gerard counted on his men following him out of prejudice against Stiles.

“Simple matter of fact,” Gerard sighed. “Renounce your claim to the iron throne; go back to Winterfell,” he addressed Derek.

“I can’t do that,” Derek evenly replied. “The throne is mine, by right.” He leveled the man with a glare. “Or did you forget who liberated King’s Landing from the Mad King?”

Some of the men appeared uncomfortable.

“If you’re claiming I’m a false king—a  _ usurper _ , I believe you wrote,” Derek started, sounding as if he was uninterested in whatever lies Gerard had been spreading. “There is no need for anyone else to die in a senseless fight. I’ll settle this with you the old ways.”

Stiles looked at Derek, surprised by his husband’s proposal.

“If you’re rightfully meant to be king, fight me,” Derek’s tone shifted into a deeper one—close to the one he often used when annoyed by something Peter had suggested. “Or would you prefer to try and poison me?”

Stiles looked at Gerard, pleased that Derek suggested what everyone knew to be true.

“I’m an old man,” Gerard chose to say instead. “It would be impossible to best you.” He surveyed the part of the camp he could see behind Derek, amusement covering his features. “Besides, have you no faith in your own men?”

“Oh, I trust them with my life,” Derek corrected Gerard. “And I know they trust me with theirs. But do your men trust you when you wouldn’t even fight for them?”

Gerard’s jaw ticked in annoyance. “I suppose we’ll see what tomorrow brings.”

“You’ll die tomorrow,” Stiles announced loudly. “Sleep well,” he stated before pulling on his horse’s reins, directing himself back into the camp.

~*~

“Does he outnumber us?” Peter asked Chris.

“A little more than a third of the Argent bannermen flocked to Allison’s side when she claimed Casterly Rock,” Chris explained, gesturing towards the part of the war table’s map that showed Casterly Rock. “She has them standing by for our aid at the edge of the Reach. Any closer to Casterly Rock, and Gerard would know they are waiting.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Peter stated as he looked at his husband.

Chris looked at Peter. “If Allison is able to successfully lead the charge, we would easily outnumber him.”

Peter nodded. “The Northern bannermen were waiting in the Run,” he started, placing the wolf sigil symbolizing the Hale reinforcements on the map. “They’ve arrived this morning,” he looked at Derek. “Your sister is leading them.”

Derek looked at Peter. “Mother sent Cora?”

“Cora asked to be sent,” Peter answered. “She appeared to be very much in support of you and Stiles keeping your heads.”

Derek nodded.

“Stiles did a fine job of irritating Gerard,” Peter commented, looking up at Stiles. “Which should bait Gerard into charging, we hope.”

Stiles was silent as he looked over the table. “We have the patience,” he noted, looking at Peter. “He also doesn’t hold any regard for his men’s lives. He’ll end up hurting himself in the end.”

Derek looked at Stiles, his gaze lingering on his husband. “If that’s all,” he started, turning to his uncle and advisors. “Rest well for the night. I’ll see you on the field in the morning.”

Stiles turned his body to lean against the table, sitting on the edge as he watched the council exit the war tent. He kept his arms crossed tightly over his chest as he waited for Derek to speak.

“You can head back to the capital,” Derek finally stated the obvious dread hanging in the air.

“I can hide behind walls while you fight,” Stiles replied.

“You can protect our son while I lead a fight against a rebel,” Derek corrected Stiles.

Stiles turned his head to look at Derek. “I don’t want to hide during a rebellion—not again.”

“You’re not hiding,” Derek vehemently denied Stiles’ words.

“Then what am I doing?” Stiles sternly demanded. “What am I doing if not hiding while men and women die for me because Lord Argent thinks I’m a whore unfit for that infernal chair,” he snapped at Derek as he moved to stand.

“You’d leave our son alone?” Derek countered in a low tone, softer than Stiles’ own. “I will be fighting in the vanguard, Stiles. Depending on how long this battle lasts, I will be wounded—perhaps even killed.”

Stiles swallowed the lump in his throat, casting his gaze away from Derek.

“I’m asking you to go back to the capital, to be with Samuel,” Derek softly stated. “To not make our son an orphan.”

Stiles drew in an unsteady breath, shaking his head. “You don’t have to fight in the vanguard,” he nearly pleaded. “You’re the king, not a rebel leader anymore.”

“I wouldn’t be a king worth following if I didn’t,” Derek countered. He took a step towards Stiles, reaching a hand out to touch Stiles’ arm.

Stiles shook his head, pulling his arm out of Derek’s reach as he fled the tent.

~*~

“You know I’ll say Derek has a point,” Cora stated as she continued to pull the leather strips through the saddle bag she was repairing.

“I would agree with you,” Stiles answered as he looked at the fire they were sitting in front of.

Cora paused her movements to look at Stiles. “But you’re angry with him for saying it,” she concluded.

Stiles looked at Cora. “I don’t want to be the one who forces him into battles.”

Cora sighed, shaking her head. “That’s a silly notion,” she admitted. “You realize Gerard was the one who attacked a high born lady,” she started as she picked up her goblet of wine. “A highborn lady who happened to be mother of the Hand of the King, and grandmother to the King Consort.”

Stiles knew the rationale behind it. “I know.”

Cora took a drink of wine before asking, “Then why are you angry that Derek is willing to fight?”

“I don’t want my husband to die tomorrow,” Stiles finally stated, looking away from Cora as he wiped his eyes of the tears burning them.

Cora set her goblet down, reaching a hand out to touch Stiles’ arm.

Stiles looked down at Cora’s hand, noticing it was the one she had injured that night in Winterfell. He had sometimes wondered if it had scarred like his.

“My brother is the best fighter in the seven kingdoms,” Cora stated. “He killed the Dragon Prince with his warhammer, and now there are fighters too scared to even be within range of him during a battle.”

“That won’t stop an archer,” Stiles countered, looking up at Cora.

“You can’t know what will happen tomorrow,” Cora honestly stated. “But you can be thankful for tonight. Many of these men and women won’t live past tomorrow—they won’t know the warmth of their spouse again. Be glad you have tonight to spend with Derek.”

Stiles knew Cora’s words were true. “I wish I was the witch Gerard tried to make people believe I am,” he admitted, casting a side glance towards Cora. “I’d curse him.”

“That would certainly be easier,” Cora commented as she turned her attention back towards the saddle bag.

Stiles faintly smiled before looking up at the night stars. “Peter said your mother sent healers,” he started, biting down on his lip as he waited for Cora’s confirmation.

“Aye,” Cora answered, her gaze still on the saddle bag. “She sent enough reinforcements of all kinds.”

Stiles nodded. “Thank you,” he uttered as he rose to leave.

Cora looked after Stiles. “You’re not ill, are you?” She questioned.

“No,” Stiles honestly answered, leaving her with that answer, doubting he knew how to explain it more.

~*~

Derek sat on the mound of furs serving as his bed. He wasn’t sure whose notion it was to pile more than a few furs, certain it was someone under the assumption Northerners always slept on a mound made of wolf and bear fur. That, or Peter thought he was being funny. He left the war tent, pursuing Stiles in an attempt to talk through their disagreement—a small part of him knowing it could be the last night they had. He stopped when he saw Stiles weaving through the Northern tents before settling on speaking with Cora at one of the fires.

Derek changed from the outlandish robes of King’s Landing. He had grown increasingly annoyed with the outlandishly embroidered designed and fabric. The tailor was following Peter’s suggestions, increasing the quality with each passing month as the royal treasury started to overflow thanks to Lydia’s guidance as Master of Coin. He still resented wearing his kingdom’s surplus wealth, preferring his current wardrobe of simple lounging trousers and shirt. The collar laid open around his neck, though loose it was not as ill fitting as when Laura’s attempt at makeshift shirts resulted in gifts for all the Hales.

“You should be sleeping,” Stiles stated.

Derek looked up, seeing that Stiles was standing by the entrance to his tent. He tossed the papers he had been reading onto the side table, focusing his attention on Stiles. “I thought you didn’t want to speak with me.”

Stiles walked further into the tent, his hands untying his cloak in an easy manner. He shrugged his shoulders out of the cloak, pulling the material off as he dropped it down onto the dressing trunk. “I had to gather my thoughts,” he admitted as he stopped to stand in front of Derek.

Derek forgot for a moment that Stiles had started to dress more in his former fashion. He had welcomed the apparent change in Stiles’ wardrobe, knowing that it meant Stiles was becoming more comfortable.

Stiles’ outfit was a rich fabric, green with gold roses embroidered on the sleeveless doublet. He wore brown leather riding pants from earlier, opting for some comfort during such a tense day.

“And what do your gathered thoughts tell you?” Derek asked as he looked up at Stiles.

“That I’m scared for my husband,” Stiles admitted. He moved with grace as he knelt in front of Derek, his hands touching Derek’s knees as he settled. He gently parted Derek’s legs as he slotted his body between Derek’s thighs. His hands moved to caress Derek’s chest. “I’m happy with you,” he stated as he looked up at Derek. “I want us to be a family, and I’m terrified that you’ll die tomorrow. That I’ll have to raise Samuel alone—or worse, I’ll lose the support you’ve garnered and be forced to give up our son.”

Derek took hold of Stiles' shoulders in a gentle grasp. “That wouldn’t happen,” he stated.

“You don’t know that,” Stiles countered. “It’s a fear I live with, more so now than ever before.”

Derek cradled Stiles’ face in the palms of his hands, turning his face upwards. “What did I promise you weeks ago?”

Stiles drew in a deep breath. “You’d kill Gerard,” he softly stated.

“Do you trust me to do that?” Derek asked, his thumb brushing over the curve of Stiles’ cheek.

“Yes,” Stiles whispered.

“I promise you,” Derek began. “I will not fall tomorrow—but return to you.”

Stiles smiled at Derek, leaning up to kiss him. “Lay with me for the night,” he spoke in even tones against Derek’s lips. “I’ll head back to the Red Keep in the morning.”

“I could hardly refuse such an offer,” Derek replied with a soft smile.

~*~

The smoldering heat from the embers warming the braziers had died down in the passing hours. There was still some time before the fear of dawn approaching would spur either of them to sleep.

Laying naked on furs reminded Stiles of the nights they had in Winterfell, how cold he felt before Derek touched him.

Stiles hooked his leg over Derek’s hip, his movements slow and languid as Derek kissed him. He followed Derek’s steady rhythm, faltering some when he pressed Derek onto his back. His hands traveled across Derek’s chest as he steadied himself, thighs slotting around Derek’s waist. His head fell back in pleasure as he familiarized himself for the old stretch of Derek inside of him.

“Stiles,” Derek uttered his name in warning—a concern for what could happen.

Stiles kissed Derek, lips lingering as he attempted to put to ease all of Derek’s worries. “I spoke to the Northern healers,” he explained once he sat back.

Derek’s hands gripped Stiles’ hips tightly as his eyes slipped shut, taking in an even breath of his own when Stiles shifted to settle around his cock.

Stiles reached out to take Derek’s hands in his own. He moved Derek’s hands to touch his body, guiding Derek’s calloused palms over his stomach and up his chest. He smiled down at Derek when his husband looked up at him. He leaned forward, his hands leaving Derek’s to explore on their own as he braced his body against Derek’s shoulders. “They said, we can have as many babies as we want,” he stated against Derek’s lips. Samuel would be one soon, and it was never considered too early for a King to have another heir. “And for tonight, I want to try for another,” he explained as he lifted his hips, moving them in a deliberately slow motion.

“Another,” Derek breathlessly uttered, his gaze falling to look at the pace of Stiles lifting and lowering himself in steady waves. He looked up at Stiles. “I don’t know if I can do that in one night.”

“You could try,” Stiles smiled as he dipped down to suck a mark into Derek’s throat, his teeth gently biting down when Derek thrust up in response.

Derek shoved his elbow back against the bed, using his strength to push them both up without jostling Stiles. His free arm circled around Stiles’ waist in support.

~*~

Stiles only slept for a few hours, his body sagging with exhaustion against Derek. He was sprawled out over Derek, his face pressed against Derek’s chest as his hand rested low on Derek’s stomach. He had tangled his leg with Derek’s to make sure he woke up when Derek inevitably had to get ready for the battle. He took comfort in Derek’s arm slung around his back, knowing Derek’s hand was resting just in the small of his back. Neither one of them could rise without the other knowing.

It didn’t matter, sleep eluding Stiles as he lingered between being half asleep and half awake. He spent his time listening to Derek’s heartbeat, his eyes memorizing whatever he could see and touch without waking Derek.

Stiles closed his eyes when he heard footsteps approaching, having heard an increasing amount now that the sun was starting to shine through the fabric of the tent.

The sound of the tent flap being open was followed by a sigh and footsteps.

Stiles felt Derek wake up, only jostled some when he assumed Derek grabbed whoever it was.

“Get dressed,” Peter’s voice spoke in a soft tone that normally wouldn’t wake Stiles.

“Get out,” Derek answered, his voice sleepadled and annoyed at being awoken by his uncle.

“Stiles,” Peter stated, as if he knew Stiles was awake.

Stiles opened his eyes to look directly at Peter, a small disgruntled look covering his features. “Go away, Peter.”

“Can’t do that,” Peter remarked as he moved to stand, looking from Stiles to his nephew. “The men are in the middle of preparing for battle,” he explained. “I’ve got the horses ready to take you back to the capital,” he noted as he looked at Stiles.

Stiles petulantly tightened his hold on Derek, like a child who was about to have their favorite thing taken away.

“Get out so we can get dressed,” Derek barked at Peter.

Peter bowed his head to them both as he turned to leave.

Derek reached his hand up to brush sleep away from his face. His other hand caressed the sharp curve of Stiles’ hip.

“I’ll help you with your armor,” Stiles stated as he parted them, rising as he pushed the fur blankets back.

“When did you learn to put armor on another,” Derek questioned as he too rose from the bed.

Stiles was silent for a moment as he looked down at the water basin he had intended to use. “My mother always helped my father,” he admitted. His brow furrowed as he thought about it—it couldn’t be that hard to figure out, though he’d admit that he had never done it himself.

Derek encircled an arm around Stiles’ waist, pulling Stiles against his chest. His nose grazed the curve of Stiles’ ear. “I’d be honored to have you help me with my armor,” he spoke against the shell of Stiles’ ear, placing a soft kiss to Stiles’ neck.

~*~

Stiles walked beside Derek, his hand tightly holding onto Derek’s arm as they exited the camp. His stomach churned when they reached Peter and the horses.

“Peter will go with you,” Derek started to explain to Stiles. “Make sure you get back into the Keep, and that things are ready for the worst.”

Stiles tightly blinked his eyes shut, trying to prevent the build up of tears. He didn’t want to think of the worst outcome.

Derek gently turned Stiles to face him. “I’ll see you soon,” he stated, a promise that this wouldn’t be the last time they saw each other.

Stiles closed the gap between them, pulling Derek in for a kiss. “I’ll see you soon,” he softly spoke, yanking himself away from Derek as he turned towards the horses.

Derek helped steady Stiles to mount the horse. His hand lingered on Stiles’ thigh as he turned towards Peter. “Arrange what you can,” he instructed.

“Look after my husband, and I’ll look after yours,” Peter answered.

Stiles looked at Peter. “You’re not coming back?”

Peter looked at Stiles. “I’m a decent fighter,” he explained. “A better schemer.”

Stiles knew he couldn’t disagree with that.

“Don’t stop for anything,” Derek told Stiles, reluctantly allowing his hand to slip away from him. “Give Samuel my love.”

Stiles nodded, not trusting his voice. He pulled on his reins, following after Peter before pausing after a few steps. He turned his head to look at Derek, seeing that Derek was still looking at him. He knew he’d regret it if he didn’t say something. “I love you,” he uttered.

Derek’s features softened some, showing his uncertainty about the day’s events for the first time. “And I love you,” he echoed Stiles’ words, unsure if this would be their last words together.

~*~

“He’ll do what he does best,” Peter stated as he rode beside Stiles.

Stiles was quiet, eyes watching the beaten road before them.

“Rebellions are inevitable with any monarchy,” Peter commented. “This may not be the last time we face this.”

Stiles played with his mother’s locket, twisting it in his hands. “Part of me wishes I didn’t love him,” he finally stated. “It would make this easier.”

Peter faintly laughed. “Yes, love complicates things,” he stated. “But do you regret it?”

Stiles shook his head. “No, never.”

Peter looked at Stiles, his gaze narrowing some. "You're not pregnant now, are you?"

Stiles couldn't help his small laugh. "That would be a blessing," he replied, looking at Peter. "We both know I won't be killed if Derek dies."

Peter was silent as he looked at Stiles, the air filled with only the sound of hooves against the dirt path they traveled. "It'd be revenge then," he noted.

Stiles looked ahead of them, eyes on the horizon as he thought about it. "It would be bittersweet," he countered. "I'd have a piece of Derek, always, regardless of the worst happening. Even if I have to hide Samuel and never see him again," he paused, shaking his head as he attempted to keep the tears back. "I'd have my avenger, even if it took years. I'll poison them from the inside, growing like a weed until everything crumbles."

Peter reached his hand out to touch Stiles' arm, gaining the younger man's attention. "I made a promise to my family—to my King," he explained. "But I'm making a promise to you now, I'll do what has to be done to prevent what you just described from happening. Even if it's surrendering the city to get you home."

Stiles looked at Peter. "My home is back there, preparing to fight in the vanguard of an unsure battle." He drew in a soft breath. "Promise you'll keep Samuel safe, no matter what. I want to know the Master of Whispers is pulling the strings to keep him safe."

"Always," Peter simply answered.

~*~

Stiles paced with Samuel in his arms, his eyes focused on the balcony’s view. He was waiting for a sign of a raven, knowing it would be sent the moment the tide of the battle started to turn. He worried it wouldn’t come.

Samuel made a soft noise as he grabbed at Stiles’ locket. He yanked on the locket, annoyed when the chain prevented him from having it.

Stiles made a soft noise as he opened Samuel’s hand to release the locket. “You like this, huh?” He rhetorically asked. “I’ll have them make you one, with our pictures,” he offered, placing a kiss to Samuel’s chubby fingers.

Samuel laughed, burling his fingers together.

“Papa will be back before you know it,” Stiles stated, his pacing coming to a stop. “Then we’ll have a painter make the cameos.”

Samuel made a high pitched noise.

Stiles pressed his face into Samuel’s neck, holding his son tightly against his chest as he tried to keep from crying.

Samuel pulled at Stiles’ hair, fascinated by finally being allowed to touch it without chastising.

“Your Majesty, Your Highness,” Peter’s voice announced his presence.

Stiles turned to look at Peter. “Have you heard anything?” He asked as he walked towards Peter, noticing the large rolls of parchment tucked under his arm.

“Nothing yet,” Peter replied, dropping the rolls onto the table. He started to unroll one, shaking his head before discarding it for another. “That’s actually a good sign.”

Stiles walked over to the table, lingering by Peter.

“If we heard word too soon, I’d be worried about an ambush,” Peter explained to Stiles. He started to unravel one of the tied scrolls.

Stiles looked down at the paper, recognizing that it had a shape eerily similar to that of King’s Landing. “This is a map of the city.”

“A map of tunnels under the city,” Peter corrected Stiles.

“There must be a couple dozen,” Stiles noted as he examined the map. “I know the ones leading to the Sept, but this is more.”

“There are over fifty tunnels in whole,” Peter explained, looking up at Stiles. “The Targaryens built this city to withstand a siege.”

“We can evacuate the people if something happens,” Stiles stated, examining the map to a great extent.

Peter took a step closer to Stiles, his hand taking hold of Stiles’ arm to gain his attention. “If something happens, you take your son and you run,” he evenly instructed.

Stiles’ brow furrowed. “Peter—”

“If Derek falls, there is no telling how long the walls will hold,” Peter stated.

“I’m not going to flee,” Stiles adamantly replied.

“Your son will be killed,” Peter lowly uttered, a harsh statement meant to sway Stiles. “That’s not a probability, that is a guarantee. There can be no Hale heir left living.”

Stiles’ features softened some, aware of Samuel’s weight in his arms.

“Save your son,” Peter stated. “Save your son, and live a life well outside this hellhole. Flee to Storm’s End, and hide behind those walls.”

Stiles faintly nodded. “I will, Peter. I will.”

“Good,” Peter softly stated, taking a step back from Stiles as he leaned against the table. “I can die with a clear conscience then.”

Stiles reached his hand out, gently touching Peter’s shoulder in a reassuring manner. “You’re a good man, Peter.”

Peter softly scoffed at Stiles’ words. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

~*~

Cora knew she would have been dead if Derek hadn’t pulled her back by the belt of her scabbard. She fell into Derek’s side, watching the warhammer hit the armored rider that would have taken her head off.

“Get back on to your men,” Derek yelled over the fighting.

“They are here!” Cora yelled back, knowing Derek had been in the middle of the vanguard when the Northern bannermen charged from the sides. “Where the fuck is the Argent lady?” She took a step forward, slashing the arm then throat of the man charging at Derek.

“Light an arrow,” Derek yelled back at her.

Cora ducked, allowing Derek to shield her from oncoming attacks as she drew her bow from her back. She grabbed one of the arrows from Derek’s quiver, remembering how Peter made them all wear at least one flaming arrow. She’d never tell her uncle the success of his planning.

Cora ripped one of the feathers out of the arrow, using it as a catalyst for sparks as she furiously scratched the flint and rock together by the arrow head.

“Cora,” Derek’s voice was filled with warning.

Cora knew something was happening, determined and focused on lighting the arrow—if the calvary wasn’t signalled, they would be overrun. She was ecstatic when the arrow lit, fire burning solidly. She grabbed her bow and strung the arrow, raising it as high as possible, she shot the arrow off into the distance, seeing it burning brightly as it cut through the horizon. She felt a body press against her back, realizing it was Derek.

Then the pain of something stabbing through her leg.

Cora swore as she reached a hand down to inspect her wound. She felt the shaft of the arrow before realizing two had punctured her leg. She looked down at the one pinning her calf to the ground, the other sticking out of the side of her thigh. Suddenly Derek’s weight fell sideways, landing next to her.

Cora looked down at Derek, seeing the arrows sticking out of his back. She grabbed Derek by the arm, lifting him up far enough to see his face. She was overcome with relief at seeing the grimace in her brother’s face as he swore in pain—Derek was alive.

“Get up,” Cora snapped as she struggled to herself. She needed to get Derek off the field. She turned her head, making sure no enemies were around them.

Cora’s features fell, a sickening disgust settling in her stomach when she realized what had happened.

Gerard had his archers fire at the vanguard, no remorse or mercy for his own men fighting.

There were Argent fighters laying dead, others screaming in pain, strewed across the battlefield along with the others.

Cora tried to look for Gerard, wanting to know when the attack would come next. “Get up, Derek,” she quickly uttered when she saw one of the scouts riding back to Gerard for next orders. She struggled before managing to stand on her good leg, reaching down to grab Derek’s arm.

Two arrows had pierced the middle of Derek’s back, another lodge just below his collarbone with the arrowhead sticking out of his chest. He could barely get to his knees without a searing pain hitting him.

“Derek, get the fuck up, now!” Cora yelled as she attempted to get him onto steady footing, knowing it wasn’t possible when he slumped back down. “They’re firing another wave, get up!” She nearly screamed at her brother, pleading for him to overcome the impossible.

Hooves of horses approached.

Chris dismounted as Boyd stopped his horse by Derek.

Both men were covered in mud and blood, having been pulled away from their skirmishes the moment they saw the vanguard cave under the onslaught of arrows.

Chris hauled Derek up, getting the younger man to stand on his feet before bodily guiding him over to Boyd. He helped Boyd lift Derek onto the horse, “Get him off the field as fast as you can.”

Cora was pulling herself up onto Chris’ horse when she heard the familiar call of archers, snapping off the arrow shafts lodged in her leg with a slight grimace of pain. She offered her hand to Chris, helping him to mount the horse behind her.

Chris saw the archers aiming their bows high. “Ride forward,” he instructed Cora.

Cora knew what Chris meant—they didn’t have time to retreat back out of the line of fire. She spurred the horse forward, hoping it had enough strength to carry two at a full gallop.

Riding straight for the enemy.

~*~

Stiles was sitting by the fire, rocking himself in the plush chair as he hummed a soft melody to Samuel. Dread gripped him all day, his mind running wild as the hours passed without a raven. He locked himself away in his and Derek’s room when the sun fell, hoping it would help the hours pass. Even with Samuel falling asleep in his arms, he couldn’t stop thinking about what was happening in the Reach. He tried to convince himself that Derek had fought over a dozen battles in Riven Run, the terrain much less forgiving than the Reach—though the Reach provided little coverage.

Samuel wiggled himself awake, a sharp cry emitting from his chest as he fought to stay asleep. His cries grew louder when Stiles didn’t know how to hold him to accommodate his new wants.

Stiles softly hushed Samuel, lifting him up further against his chest, allowing his son to rest his head against his collarbone. He rubbed a hand up and down Samuel’s back, knowing it would do little to quell the prince’s anger. He thought it fitting, his son having the temperament of a Hale.

“Papa isn’t here,” Stiles offered aloud, knowing Derek could soothe Samuel with just the sound of his voice. He had grown fond of it—perhaps too fond, always watching with joy as Derek easily put Samuel back to sleep with a few comforting words. It didn’t matter what Derek said, his voice being enough.

“I can tell you a story,” Stiles started as he moved to stand from his chair, deciding that pacing would distract Samuel and himself.

“The one about the wolf pup,” he started, pressing a soft kiss into Samuel’s dark locks. His fingers twisted at the curls, marveling at the small ringlets that hung loosely from Samuel’s head. He believed Peter when he had said that Samuel mirrored Derek at a young age, seeing a fondness in the older man’s eyes when he looked at the young Hale.

“There was once a wolf pup, who lived in the King’s Wood with his fathers,” Stiles started. “Though stags were often the prey of the wolves that lived there, this pup and his father protected one from all others.” He swallowed down the lump in his throat when he thought of Derek—of Cora and the Hale bannermen. “The pup learned grace and speed from the stag, while he learned how to hunt and to protect from the wolf. And this pup was beloved by all.”

Samuel’s fingers grasped and played with the open collar of Stiles’ doublet, his head resting against Stiles’ chest.

“Even by the other wolves,” Stiles added as an afterthought. “But there were still things in the woods—evil things—that wished to hurt the wolf pup,” he uttered, remembering how the Mad King would pace, spewing nonsense as he endlessly accused everyone of betrayal. He thought it absurd that he and Derek had to actually fear what the Mad King had been most paranoid about.

Samuel turned into Stiles as the story continued, yawning some as his eyes drooped with sleep.

“But the stag told the pup, ‘You are a wolf, my son, you mustn’t be afraid. And one day, all the creatures will bow to you—all the beasts in the sea, the birds in the sky, and the wolves in the north, and the stags in the south. They will all come to you—to rest a crown of flowers upon your head.” A soft, breathy sob nearly escaped Stiles’ chest. “And the wolf pup asked, ‘Will I be strong like my father?’ To which the stag answered, ‘Yes, little one, just like your father.’”

The doors to his room were suddenly opened, with the speed of urgency.

Stiles’ words stopped as his heart stuttered.

“Your Majesty,” the person spoke in a rush, his breath quick and nearly depleted.

Stiles tightened his hold on Samuel, daring to look down at his son. He released a shaky breath when he saw he was asleep. He forced himself to turn and look at the messenger. He noticed the boy as one of the Hales’ messengers.

A messenger meant no raven. No raven meant something went wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Derek is fine. I promise.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow. Here we are! The final chapter. I'm sorry to those who wanted a long chapter, but this was really just the pleasant bookend of the aftermath.
> 
> Thank you for coming on this journey with me, and for all your loving comments. They are truly so amazing to read and really keep the fire in my heart lit.  
> <3 Enjoy

Stiles pulled one of the robes from the armoire, inspecting the material. He held it out for Cora to see.

Cora made a face of displeasure.

“This is a nice outfit,” Stiles countered Cora’s silent disapproval.

“It’s flowery,” Cora replied.

Stiles lightly laughed. “It’s all the rage in King’s Landing to have flower embroidery.”

Cora shook her head. “Can’t I wear my Northern robes?”

Stiles took a step towards Cora. “Peter said you had to look more esteemed than a warrior.”

“I should have let my mother send ceremonial robes,” Cora replied.

“Your parents will be here for the ceremony,” Stiles explained, sitting down on the small lounging stool by Cora’s chair. He folded the robes he had shown her across his lap. “Your mother might have brought robes for you.”

“Whatever she brings will be as ostentatious as Peter,” Cora mumbled, closing her eyes as she let her head rest against the back of her chair.

Stiles looked away from Cora, his gaze turning towards the bedroom’s balcony. He watched the breeze billow through the curtains. “Did you know what Gerard had done?” He finally asked.

Stiles had not seen Cora as often as he had hoped he would before the ceremony. He had spent his days and nights by Derek’s bedside, changing the bandages and making sure his husband rested. His nights become sleepless as he watched Derek, determined to see the signs of life as his husband continued to draw breath.

Cora had been with healers almost as much as Derek, many unsure if she would lose her leg to infection.

“What hadn’t he done?” Cora softly asked, looking at her blanket-covered leg. Her leg ached deeply, and she was sure she’d never recover from the limp she now walked with. But it was a small price to pay for what happened that day.

“Some part of me had always thought that he had something to do with what happened before the rebellion,” Stiles confessed, looking down at the robes in his lap.

“My mother said that part of her knew,” Cora replied.

Stiles looked at Cora. “Is that why you pushed yourself that hard?”

“Your Lady Argent,” Cora explained, finally turning her gaze to Stiles. “Some of the men who flocked to her had heard what Gerard said to your grandmother. She told Peter the night of the battle that Gerard had taken credit for betraying Laura to the Mad King.”

Stiles tightened his hold on the robes, twisting the material some. “I was so stupid then— I should have been more careful when talking to Laura.”

“You were a child,” Cora suddenly said. “It took me a while to not blame you, but you shouldn’t blame yourself.”

Stiles offered a faint smile to Cora. “I appreciate that.” He looked at Cora, hesitating before he finally broached the subject, “You know, the soldiers talk about what happened during the battle.”

“About me throwing Chris off the horse?” Cora softly questioned.

Stiles faintly shook his head. “About you leaping off your galloping horse to tackle a fleeing Gerard off his.”

Cora didn’t look at Stiles as she nodded. “I did.”

“What you did was brave,” Stiles commented.

Cora scoffed. “It was pure anger,” she corrected Stiles. “I couldn’t let him get away.”

Stiles drew in a deep breath. “I wish he had experienced even a degree of the suffering he caused.”

“He did,” Cora suddenly stated.

Cora didn’t say what happened, even when Derek asked. She let Chris report it, wondering if she was being cruel in her silence. She had struggled with Gerard after knocking him off the horse, scrambling for the closest thing to put an end to it.

Her arms were tired from bringing the object down repetitively.

The helmet had been heavy, dented and dripping with blood as Cora panted from exertion. Her ragged breath turned to sobbing as she screamed in anger. She felt regret for Chris having to see what was left of Gerard’s skull when he came to help her.

Stiles reached his hand out to take Cora’s in a comforting manner.

Cora looked at Stiles for a moment before she reached forward to take the robes out of Stiles’ hands. “I suppose it’s a nice outfit—for the Capital.”

~*~

Derek rested on his side as he left his back bared to Stiles. His shoulders tensed some when Stiles’ fingers pressed along the still healing wounds along his back.

“It looks better,” Stiles weakly stated as he finished cleaning Derek’s back of the used bandages.

Derek turned his head to look at Stiles.

Stiles looked at Derek, leaning forward to press a kiss to Derek’s shoulder before he pulled back to slip from the bed. He moved the water basin he had used, trying to ignore that the water was tinged pink.

“You’re mad at me,” Derek suddenly stated.

Stiles set the basin down, turning to look at Derek. “Why would I be mad at you?”

Derek relaxed into the bed some, his gaze not leaving Stiles.

Stiles released a heavy breath. “I’m not mad at you,” he firmly stated. “I was scared.”

“I didn’t mean for this to happen, Stiles,” Derek admitted.

“I know,” Stiles stated, finally turning away from the basin as he moved to face Derek. “I thought you were dead when that messenger arrived.”

Derek hesitated for a moment before rising from the bed. He struggled with the initial attempt to stand.

“Derek,” Stiles uttered his name in concern as he darted forward to assist his husband.

Derek staggered some, his hands grabbing at Stiles’ shoulders as he steadied himself. “I’m fine,” he stated, looking at Stiles.

“You had three arrows in you,” Stiles replied, his hand touching just under Derek’s collarbone, beneath the visible wound.

“And I’m fine,” Derek firmly echoed his previous words. “I made a choice, Stiles,” he started to explain. “I knew if Cora didn’t loose that arrow, Allison never would have lead the charge. And we wouldn’t have won.”

Stiles nodded, his hands moving to caress down Derek’s arms, a distraction for himself. “Just … ” He looked up at Derek. “Promise me that’s the end. No more vanguard, no more worrying you won’t come home.”

Derek cupped Stiles’ face in his hands, his thumb brushing over Stiles’ cheekbone. “No more worrying,” he confirmed.

Stiles smiled as he kissed Derek, his arms wrapping around Derek’s shoulders as he pulled them together.

A pair of rushed footsteps barreled down the hallway leading to their room, two excited voices breathlessly chatting before the door slammed open.

“Stiles!”

Stiles looked at the two people yelling his name, smiling when he saw they were Emma and Emmett.

Derek took a step back from Stiles as he fondly watched his siblings hug onto Stiles. He moved to sit on the end of the bed, his back aching some from the strain.

“You’ve gotten bigger,” Stiles noted as she smiled down at them. He circled his arms around Emma and Emmett.

Emmett quietly looked around Stiles’ side to get a better look at Derek. He smiled when he caught Derek looking back at him, slipping beneath Stiles’ hold to hug Derek.

“Mama said that if Emmett keeps growing, he’ll be as tall as Derek,” Emma stated as she spun with Stiles in her hold before releasing him, moving to hug her older brother.

“That’s pretty tall,” Stiles noted with a nod of his head, smiling as he watched Emma and Emmett cling to Derek, noticing how they tried to be gentle despite their excitement.

“I’ll still fit in my robes for the celebration,” Emmett quickly stated.

“I suppose we could have the tailor make you new ones if you outgrow them,” Derek teased.

“You’re okay now, right?” Emma suddenly asked Derek, a furrow of her brows displaying her worry as she hugged Derek’s arm.

Derek playfully poked the scrunch in Emma’s brow, relieved when his sister laughed at the action. “I’m well,” he stated, looking from Emma to Emmett. “Stiles is taking care of me now.”

“Then you’ll be better than before,” Emmett stated.

Stiles smugly smiled at Derek, crossing his arms over his chest.

~*~

Stiles dutifully stood beside Derek as he watched his husband place a medal around Cora’s neck. His gaze had wandered across the room, observing the people in attendance. He faintly smiled at the Hales, pleased to be seeing them again under happy circumstances. He noticed the concerned look on Cora’s face when Derek took an unexpected step back. He moved with ease to wrap his arm around Derek’s waist, slotting himself beneath Derek’s arm on his unharmed side.

Derek’s arm shook with the strain as he tightened his grip on Stiles’ hip.

Stiles reached his hand up to cover Derek’s, blocking any movement that could look as if Derek was struggling to stand. He bowed his head lower than Derek’s as Cora moved to stand with Peter’s assistance.

Derek drew in an even breath as he pushed himself to stand up straight.

“Are you okay?” Stiles whispered under his breath as he looked at Derek.

“I might need to sit for a while,” Derek chose his words carefully, not wanting Stiles to worry he was pushing himself.

“Then walk with me to the gardens,” Stiles answered with his grip around Derek’s waist tightening. “I think I deserve to be intimate with my husband while we walk.”

Derek faintly smiled at Stiles’ words. He waited for the musicians to start playing an anthem, moving to descend the throne room’s steps with Stiles tucked beneath his arm.

~*~

Samuel grabbed at Emma’s hair, excited by the curls dangling from her head.

Emma released a high pitched squeal, trying to yank her hair out of Samuel’s grasp.

Emmett laughed when Samuel made a loud noise of displeasure for Emma pulling her hair away.

“Don’t do that,” Stiles chastised Samuel, wrapping his hand around Samuel’s to stop him.

Samuel made a bubbling noise with his lips, turning his attention towards Stiles. He grabbed at Stiles’ doublet, preoccupying himself with the bright colors.

Stiles used his free hand to fix Emma’s hair, placing her curls back in order. “He didn’t pull the braid out,” he offered with a small smile to Emma.

Emma gently touched her hair to inspect it.

“Still looks beautiful,” Stiles added. He moved to stand, offering his free hand to Emma. “How about a dance,” he offered, looking at Emmett too.

The musicians played a folksy song, one simple enough to keep children and a baby entertained for the passing time.

Emma excitedly grabbed Emmett’s hand as she pulled him along with her.

Emmett stumbled as he followed after his sister.

~*~

Stiles smiled as he watched Talia and Nathan tend to Samuel, taking a moment to relax as the celebrations continued. He was amused to see Emma passed out on Peter’s shoulder.

Peter was standing next to a highborn lord, their discussion turning heated until Emma made a slight noise, stirring some before falling back asleep against her uncle’s shoulder. He glared at the man, as if to threaten the other lord into silence.

Stiles looked at Derek, seeing that he was sitting at his designated spot at the banquet. Emmett was kneeling in the seat besides Derek, leaning over the side, only maintaining his balance when Derek reached a hand out to steady him. Stiles’ heart fluttered when he saw Emmett enthusiastically speaking with Derek, his hands moving rapidly as he continued his story.

Stiles turned to look at Cora sitting beside him, his gaze following hers before realizing that the young Hale woman was watching Lydia. He cleared his throat, faintly smirking when Cora startled. He gave her a knowing look.

“I am the Savior of King’s Landing,” Cora started, pointedly looking at Stiles. “I’m allowed to look at people.”

“Are you in shape to duel Lady Argent?” Stiles countered.

Cora sighed, rolling her eyes.

“I could put in a good word for you with my cousin,” Stiles noted.

Cora made a noise of agreement. “They are both beautiful.”

Stiles’ brow pinched for a moment before he turned an amused look at Cora. “Why, Lady Hale, you suggest the most salacious of things,” he uttered.

“What is better than one beautiful woman? Two beautiful women,” Cora answered her own question, laughing some when Stiles nudged her with his shoulder. “Two beautiful, intelligent and fierce women.”

“You’ll dig a grave with them,” Stiles countered.

“A grave I’d happily lay in,” Cora stated when she saw Allison reach a hand out to tuck one of Lydia’s curls back behind her ear.

Stiles looked from Allison and Lydia to Cora. “I’ll mention it,” he noted as he rose from his seat.

~*~

The sun was rising over the horizon, its rays brightly shining through the elegant windows of the Red Keep. Various shapes and colors reflected across the floors and walls.

Stiles had awoken earlier than anyone, slipping out from beneath Derek’s arm in order to wander the halls during the quiet hours of the morning. The Red Keep would be bustling soon with Derek’s family, knowing his father would be prepared to ride for Storm’s End before noon. He looked forward to seeing High Garden restored once more, knowing the treasury in Storm’s End held more than enough—perhaps even more than the royal funds.

Stiles stood in the middle of the throne room, looking up at the stained glass window high behind the throne. His eyes focused on the seven points of the star, curious what the Northerners felt at seeing the Seven-Pointed star hang above the head of their king—a king who had been raised to believe in the Old Gods.

Stiles thought of Laura, wondering what she believed in when the Mad King ordered her execution.

“I hate this room,” Stiles announced, knowing he wasn’t alone.

“A mutual feeling,” Derek answered as he approached Stiles, his footsteps drawing closer.

“Do you think they’d have a heart attack if we redecorated?” Stiles jested, turning to look at Derek, seeing that he was also in his dressing gown.

Derek faintly smiled. “More than likely,” he replied.

Stiles had grown confused with each passing week he had spent married to Derek. There were no words for how he hated King’s Landing before his marriage.

How many tears he had cried. How many dances he had performed. How many died, and how many lived because of him.

Stiles allowed his eyes to roam the room before he spoke. “Would His Majesty care to dance with me?” He finally asked in a calm and gentle tone.

Derek reached his hand out to steady Stiles’ waist, his fingertips tracing along the thorned belt Stiles wore. “Here?” He asked, recalling the last time they danced in the throne room had been their wedding.

“Here,” Stiles confirmed as he took a step closer to Derek. “Only us,” he admitted, hoping it was enough for Derek to understand his feelings on the matter.

Derek wrapped his arms around Stiles, pulling them together before he started a slow dance.

Stiles reached his hands up, touching Derek’s face as he pressed his forehead against Derek’s. “No more ghosts.”

The cold stones wouldn’t remember the way his feet moved. The Mad King would never again watch him spin for his amusement. The kingdom would forget who the Stag of High Garden was.

The garden would grow strong, entangled through the roots, but no one ever remembered its prized treasures. No one remembered the flower that had blossomed around its own thorns.

But Derek would remember  _ him _ .

“No more ghosts,” Derek spoke Stiles’ words back to him as a promise.


End file.
